


Heartbeat of the Mountain

by chrystal896



Series: Heartbeat Under the Mountain [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Everybody Lives, Fluff, Gen, Humor, M/M, Minor Angst, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build, sweet and fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-20 07:20:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3641559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrystal896/pseuds/chrystal896
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo adjusts to caring for a nephew and realizes that the Shire holds no future for him anymore. It is time to return to the mountain. With Frodo in tow, he sets off to find out if Thorin regrets his decisions and to discover if the mountain can handle not one, not two, but three troublemakers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because I can't leave well enough alone and like everyone else, the end of BotFA makes me angry, I have decided to once again write something I definitely do not own and make it fit my vision of what happened. What follows is a multi-chapter, multi-fic journey. This first story is complete and the first three chapters have even been beta-ed by an awesome friend. Hopefully, I will be able to post at least a chapter a week for the foreseeable future as not only is this story written, but two more are completed and a third is in progress with many ideas for multiple other offshoots. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are my bread and butter! I hope you enjoy!

There were many things that Bilbo expected when he got home from adventuring. He could live with the stares of the other hobbits in Hobbiton. He expected their eyes following him as he made his way from Bag End to the market. He heard the whispers about him and his mad quest. He may not have guessed they’d nickname him “Mad Baggins” but he had expected the whispers as he passed hobbits on the road and the knowing nods behind his back. 

Bilbo had expected nothing less after disappearing into the wilds with a group of unknown dwarves at the request of none other than Gandalf the Grey. He had expected the comments and the stares. He’d even suspected that he’d have to reclaim Bag End in some spectacular fashion after having been gone for so long, those Sackville-Bagginses were pernicious creatures.

What he hadn’t expected was Frodo Baggins.

Frodo peered over the table suspiciously at Bilbo. Sharp blue eyes met dark gray and Bilbo suddenly felt just as judged as the first time Thorin had looked through him with those ice-blue eyes and proclaimed him nothing more than a grocer.

“I don’t wanna,” the child said stubbornly, resting his chin on top of the table and glared at Bilbo.

Bilbo sighed internally but kept his face perfectly schooled. “Baths are not an option. And since you’ve been playing in the mud all afternoon, it’s an absolute imperative.”

The glare deepened and the lip curled. “Mama wouldn’ta made me.” 

At this, Bilbo did raise an eyebrow, out of surprise more than anything. Primula and Drogo’s deaths had only happened a few short months ago and Frodo had been quite reluctant to talk about them. “I can assure you, she would.” Bilbo said cautiously as Frodo’s lip quivered. 

“I wanna go home.”

The voice was soft and Bilbo felt his heart break. Scooping up his nephew quickly, Bilbo made his way into the sitting room, cuddling the small hobbit as a face was buried in his chest. Bilbo ignored the muddy clothes as he rested his head gently on top of Frodo’s curls. The soft, dark hair under his chin caused his heart to ache as a dwarfish face with similar inky locks flashed through his mind. With a sigh he refocused on the child sniffling in his lap. “Me too, Frodo. Me too,” he murmured softly as the firelight played across the room. Bilbo felt Frodo pull back to study his face curiously. 

“But you are home, aren’t you?” Frodo wondered aloud, tilting his head. Bilbo smiled down at his nephew and wiped away a few stray tears that still lingered on Frodo’s face. 

“Home can be a place, but it can also be a person,” here he rubbed his nose against Frodo’s before wrapping his arms tighter around his adopted son. “Like you, there is someone else I miss that I loved quite dearly. He was my home for a while. But then I found you and I love you more than anything, so anywhere you are is my home now.”

Frodo’s lip quivered again. “He died too?” Bilbo was quick to shake his head. 

“I think not, since no one has told me otherwise,” he assured Frodo, squeezing him gently. With his head still tilted, Frodo considered Bilbo’s words before wrinkling his nose slightly. 

“That’s dumb,” he said flatly. Bilbo blinked at the young hobbit as Frodo glared at him. “If he’s alive, then why aren’t you with him?”

Bilbo coughed slightly as he tried to figure out how to explain betrayal and hatred to someone who could barely see over the kitchen table. Frodo had certainly heard the stories of his adventures albeit in a heavily edited form, more suited for a fairy tale. Bilbo had conveniently left out the ending of that bedtime story. He had spent so much time after leaving Erebor dwelling on the loss of Thorin and his dwarven friends that he was almost loathe to bring it back up again; now that he had finally found a sense of peace with Frodo.

“I made him very angry, I’m afraid. I don’t think he wants to see me,” he finally uttered simply, hoping to leave it at that.

“What’d you do?”

Closing his eyes, Bilbo counted silently to ten in Sindarin and then again in Westron while marveling at how persistent small children could be. “I made a choice, which while right, went against everything he believed in. He’s a very honorable dwarf, Frodo. But he is also very stubborn, kind of like a little hobbit I know.”

Frodo stuck his tongue out at Bilbo before turning thoughtful again. “So you were right and he was wrong?”

Shrugging his shoulders, Bilbo eventually nodded. “I suppose you could put it like that. It’s a bit more complicated and I’m sure he doesn’t see it that way. I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me.”

“Grown-ups are stupid,” Frodo stated, his brow furrowed. “And I’m hungry.”

He squirmed off of Bilbo’s lap, suddenly bored with the conversation, and started heading toward the kitchen. Bilbo glanced down at his now muddy clothes and grimaced. Darting after his nephew who had broken into a sprint at the sight of the dinner cooling on the table, Bilbo snatched him up again.

“Grown-ups are quite stupid about many things, Frodo.” He agreed amiably, trotting toward the bathroom, “But not about baths and small hobbits who need them.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I don't own anything. And because this chapter is so short, I'm posting it along with the first chapter rather than waiting a week in-between. I should perhaps mention that in this universe the One Ring is not a doom-filled piece of jewelry, just a useful magical bauble because I really wanted to focus on Frodo in the mountain and not have the threat of growing up to be the ring-bearer hanging over his head.

Thursdays were market days. It was a day Frodo wished he could enjoy since the market had many fascinating things but he invariably ended up hating with all the passion he could muster in his small body. That morning found the unlikely pair wandering through the market with Frodo all but clinging to Bilbo’s leg. Frodo couldn’t be bothered to worry about the numerous creases he was causing in his uncle’s trousers, there were entirely too many strangers around. The youngster eyed the other hobbits warily. They always ruffled his curls and called him cute, but there was something wrong with the way they said it. There must be, because Uncle Bilbo stiffened every time one of them did it.

Frodo felt Bilbo freeze and he froze too, staring at the woman who was sailing toward them.

“Lobelia,” he heard his uncle say in what Frodo had dubbed his polite voice. He didn’t like Uncle Bilbo’s polite voice. He only used it when something was wrong. It wasn’t warm and it wasn’t welcoming and Frodo was glad that it was never directed at him. 

Tuning the adults out, which was hard to do because Aunt Lobelia was LOUD, Frodo glanced around at the other hobbits in the marketplace. Some nodded when Lobelia spoke, only a few when Uncle Bilbo spoke, and yet they all somehow seemed to be staring at him. He shrank back against Bilbo’s leg and a small part of his heart unclenched when he felt a familiar hand tangle in his curls. 

He didn’t like it when they stared. It made him feel small, like he had done something wrong. They seemed to stare at Uncle Bilbo a lot, too. Like he was going to do something crazy such as disappear on another “adventure”, similar to the ones he told Frodo about at bedtime. Frodo didn’t know why it bothered them so, the adventures sounded fun! Glancing up, he saw the squished, angry face of Lobelia who had squinted down at him and unfortunately caught his eye. She gave him that same nasty look he’d seen on her face and the face of some of her family during the funeral. The hobbits in the marketplace never seemed as annoyed as a Sackville-Baggins, more filled with pity or merely that same blank, polite look that Uncle Bilbo had when dealing with someone he didn’t like.

Tugging at the jacket by his face, he looked up at Bilbo with a beseeching look on his face. “Can we go home now?” He shot another nervous look around at the hobbits gathered around them, all still bearing that same pitying look.

He watched Bilbo shoot a glare at the hobbits and then barked something at Aunt Lobelia that Frodo was sure he wasn’t supposed to ever repeat, but he smirked when Lobelia’s face soured even more as she stomped away.

Frodo had a sudden and heartening realization. Uncle Bilbo didn’t like Hobbiton any more than he did. A seed began to bloom in his mind. They needed a new home. One where there was no Lobelia and no staring hobbits and no hair ruffling. He wrinkled his nose at the last one. Definitely no hair ruffling. 

Frodo got a calculating look as the two strode back to the smial, their shopping still undone. As his uncle was too busy muttering under his breath about confounded relatives, he completely missed the mischievous expression. Instead, Frodo suddenly found himself swung up onto Bilbo’s shoulders where, in the warm spring sunshine, Frodo began to plot.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has left kudos or comments! They really do inspire authors to keep writing and posting. I can't believe this story already has 80 kudos! I promise to continue to update as fast as I can!

“What was his name?”

“What kind of name is that?”

“Does he live far away?”

“Why would anyone live in a mountain?”

“Is he nice?”

“Well, could he be nice if he wanted?”

“What does that word mean?”

“When am I going to be old enough to know?”

“What’s a dwarrow?”

“Why’d he get mad?”

“What does honorable mean again?”

“Do you miss him?”

“Why don’t you go see him?”

“Why not?”

“Is that even a reason? That doesn’t sound like a reason…”

Bilbo was about to scream. The questions had started not long after he’d told off Lobelia Sackville-Baggins for even thinking that he shouldn’t be Frodo’s guardian. Quite honestly, he’d thought Frodo had forgotten all about their conversation about home and the fact that he’d loved and left somebody. Clearly he hadn’t. Every time he turned around, Frodo was there, bouncing on his toes with a mischievous grin on his face and a question on his lips.

“Why do you want to know so much about Thorin?” Bilbo finally asked after yet another round of Pester Uncle Bilbo.

Frodo stared at him with large, innocent blue eyes. “Because I want to meet him,” he said breezily.

“Well if that’s all – wait, what?” Bilbo looked down at his nephew who had been digging happily in the dirt beside him.

Frodo yanked out a dandelion root and tossed it into the pile. “I wanna meet the dwarves.”

“Dwarrows,” Bilbo corrected automatically, his mind racing to figure out where his nephew was headed with this conversation.

“Right. Dwarrows. Lonely Mountain. Dead dragon. Evil shiny rock,” Frodo rattled off just as absently, making his mound of dirt into something that resembled a pie.

Bilbo could feel a headache starting to bloom behind his eyes. “I’ve already told you why I had to leave.”

Glancing up at him through long eyelashes, Frodo grinned at him. “But why can’t you go back?”

Blinking rapidly, Bilbo looked at his nephew who at 10 years old was quite smart and had a mind like a steel trap. “Because he didn’t want me there.”

“You said he loved you.”

“I made him very mad.”

“You were mad when I accidentally set Grandma’s book on fire. And then you said you would love me no matter what.”

Bilbo blinked rapidly and tried to figure out how he’d been outmaneuvered.

“I don’t like it here,” he finally heard softly and he glanced down to see Frodo glaring at the dirt.

“You don’t like living with me?” Bilbo asked, confused and a little hurt. Frodo had seemed like he was settling quite nicely into Bag End. They’d had their ups and downs, and Frodo still woke him up at least twice a week with nightmares, but overall it had been pleasant to have the pitter-patter of little feet running through his smial.

“I love you. And I like Bag End. I don’t like them.”

Bilbo was surprised at the venom he heard and he automatically glanced down to where he could see the busy marketplace.

“They stare a lot. And they always have that look on their face. They act nice but they’re not. They’re mean. ‘Specially Lobelia.” Frodo said bluntly, his fingers clenching the dirt in anger.

Nothing Frodo said was untrue, Bilbo realized. After his adventure, the hobbits had been slow to accept his return. He’d changed far more than he realized and this sort of life didn’t suit him very well anymore. The only happiness in his life was Frodo and the adventures he took him on in and around the Shire. Adventures that prompted Lobelia to declare him an unfit parent. Unthinkingly, he’d been bringing up Frodo the same way he had been raised. Frodo would never fit in around here; he had too much Took blood in him. It was the same blood that had ended his parents’ life far too early. Frodo was his parents’ son just as Bilbo was the son of Belladonna Took.

“Would you really like to leave?” He asked cautiously. “It wouldn’t just be a walking holiday. It’s likely you wouldn’t see the Shire for a very, very long time.”

Frodo’s face brightened immeasurably. “Can we go? Are we? When? Now? Tomorrow? Are we going to see Elves too?”

Bilbo shook his head at the onslaught of yet more questions and vowed to answer them all. In his heart he felt that this was right. He’d made a mistake leaving Erebor, though it had given him Frodo. Besides, he had unfinished business with Erebor’s King. He was a Took and he would not die without knowing if Thorin had ever forgiven him or not. He’d left while Thorin had been unconscious, slipping out without any of the company seeing him leave. He really was quite a good burglar. His love for Thorin had not waned and he desperately wanted to see his friends again. 

It was time to go home.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo and Bilbo began their journey and meet some new and old friends along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honor of Friday and for reaching almost 150 Kudos in the short time I've been posting to this story, I'm posting early and it's even a longer chapter! I hope you enjoy!

Despite Frodo’s insistence that they should leave immediately there were things that needed to be done. Arrangements needed to be made and wills needed to be sorted out. Bilbo was no fool. He’d gone rushing off into the woods trailing a contract he’d barely understood the first time around. Now, he had a small fauntling in his charge and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to take every precaution. Which included the very important task of keeping Lobelia Sackville-Baggins away from Bag End. Permanently.

“There you are, Mr. Baggins. Ol’ Lobelia won’t set a single foot inside Bag End.” Elderly Percy Allfoots was the best solicitor in the four farthings of the Shire. That he was Bilbo’s uncle twice removed on either side didn’t hurt. It hadn’t taken Bilbo long to come knocking at his door. In truth, Percy was the only person in Hobbiton who had not seemed surprised to hear that Bilbo was leaving. “Always figgered you’d be off and about again. Just like your mum, you are.” He nodded knowingly, as he affixed his seal to the deed that would prevent any Sackville-Baggins from finally making off with the ‘wealth’ of Bag End. “You just leave it t’me. I’ll see to it the Gamgees are nice and comfy. Will you be needing anything else, lad?”

When Bilbo shook his head and professed that he had everything else in hand, Percy gave him a warm smile. “Good luck to you, Bilbo. I have a feeling you and that boy of yours will do well in Erebor.”

As the hearty farewell followed Bilbo out the door into the warm sunshine, Bilbo felt his heartbeat quicken. That was one more thing he could mark off his to-do list. The monumental chore of packing lay before them. A far more daunting task than the first time he’d run out of his door with not even a suitable hood for the rain. However, they were one step closer to going ‘home.’

Frodo was quite eager to begin their journey. He’d puffed up with importance when Bilbo had not only allowed Frodo to come to the Ferrier’s with him to pick out a pony, but had solemnly listened to all of Frodo’s advice on which pony would be the best for the sturdy cart they’d already gotten. In the end, the two settled on a lovely little red and white spotted pony, sturdy in mouth and with a gentle, good-humored look in her eye.

Despite having proclaimed himself the master of knowledge of all things Dwarven, Frodo relied on his uncle’s guidance on what to bring and what could stay behind. His favorite storybooks were the first to be packed and subsequently the first of many things to be unpacked when Frodo realized they would not be leaving straightaway. However, eventually, the small cart grew laden with boxes and trunks. Most of what they owned was to remain in Bag End, but all the essentials had made it into the cart: Bilbo’s book, certainly, suitable clothes for travel and winter, some of his mother’s pottery, and his father’s old wood carving set just to name a few. Having spent so long on the road, Bilbo had become accustomed to traveling light, a fact which served them both in good stead.

Finally, FINALLY, they pulled out one bright sunny, morning. The birds and crickets were just beginning to make their early morning noises as Bilbo slipped the key to Bag End under Percy Allfoots’ door. Bilbo had wanted to escape –er leave Hobbiton without any undue fuss which meant leaving before anyone would even be contemplating First Breakfast much less Second Breakfast. Three times Lobelia had come banging at their door, demanding that Frodo be allowed to remain with his kin and muttering about corruption of the youth. The first, time, Bilbo had politely sent her on her way. The last time, Frodo had taken on that delightful task with all the exuberance of any child about to go on vacation. Bilbo would cherish that sour grimace at being told off by a fauntling for interrupting ‘his’ adventure until the end of his days.

Three months after that early spring day when Frodo had bound onto the seat next to him with all the exuberance he could muster, found them well on their way into summer and the young lad’s tune had changed quite a bit. Bilbo couldn’t help but grin.

“Are we there yet?”

Bilbo turned his head to glance down into the small wagon. The question had been growing in popularity the longer the two had been on the move. With a patience that defied normal explanation, Bilbo shook his head regretfully. “I did warn you,” he uttered drily, “that this would not be like a walking holiday in the Shire.” 

Their time on the road had been well spent. While this time there was not a frantic dash to save Erebor from a fire-breathing wyrm, the two hobbits found themselves maintaining the frantic pace that had begun in Hobbiton as they were both eager to see the dwarrows. The little cart and pony had served them well, a fact that Frodo was immeasurably proud of. After all, Bilbo mused, he had been the one to choose the pony and her name, Cinnabuns – so named for the dusting of reddish flakes across her bum. 

Frodo had been full of excitement and questions at all the new sights of the road as they started out. However, his spirits had dampened as the never-ending rain persisted even as they crossed through the gate of the tall wooden walls that enclosed the village of Bree. Bilbo had watched his nephew from the corner of his eye as the tiny fauntling gazed with solemn blue eyes at the tall, coarse men that wandered through the town. Once they’d stepped down from the cart, Frodo had clung to his uncle tightly, not looking up once. All in all, it was significantly disheartened young adventurer who had checked into the Prancing Pony with Bilbo that night.

Although Frodo’s spirits had perked up a bit as they spent a few days in Bree, searching for a guide, it wasn’t until they left the city proper and returned to the country-side that Frodo’s enthusiasm had returned full force. It had been a great relief to Bilbo to not only have the return of his nephew’s excitement, which bolstered his own, but to have the safety of the Ranger as they began down the road to Rivendell. There was not much deliberation on Bilbo’s part to decide against bypassing the Elves. It would have been remiss of him after all those times he’d taken Frodo searching for Elves in the woods of the Shire, and his nephew’s bouncing glee at the prospect of meeting a certain Elven lord was proof that Bilbo’s decision was a wise one.

Or at least that’s what he thought until Frodo had met the twin sons of Elrond.

A shudder of dread trickled down Bilbo’s back despite the warmth of the summer sun. It was still too close to their departure from Rivendell for Bilbo to even begin to contemplate their time there. And while some may say that an entire mountain range and three weeks worth of travel with their recently acquired Elven guides would certainly be enough physical distance, Bilbo was quite certain he needed even more time and space before dredging up those particular memories. 

Bilbo shook his head vigorously to rid himself of the unwanted thoughts and glanced around him. The presence of their Elven guard had been a surprise, but a welcome one. These warriors were not the grim faced Elves he had encountered in Mirkwood, but rather kindly Elves who had adored Frodo from the moment he had hopped down from the wagon. Many a night had been spent with Frodo staring sightlessly into the fire enthralled by a story of one of their traveling companions. It was safe to say that Frodo did indeed love the Elves.

Bilbo let the rocking motion of the cart lull him into a half-doze, content that the Elves would spot any indication of trouble well before it reached their little cart. His mellowness did not suit Frodo at all.

“Are we there now?” Bilbo heard again and so he turned and blinked lazily down at his nephew.

“We will get there when we get there and not a moment before,” he murmured mildly as one of their friendly warriors, Galieon, snickered from his place beside the cart at Frodo’s look of dismay. Bilbo smiled at that and guided the pony around a rut in the road, certain that he had not heard the last of that question.

“Do we get to meet Beorn?” 

He watched as Frodo climbed his way out of the blankets and sat next to him on the seat of the rattling cart. Frodo turned his face to bask in the warmth of the afternoon sun before glancing at his uncle for an answer.

Bilbo shook his head regretfully. “The elves want to reach the edge of Mirkwood as soon as possible. They’ve arranged for us to meet the guard who will ensure we get safely through the forest.”

Frodo looked crestfallen at the thought of missing the giant bear-man. “I wanted to see the cooking goats,” he mumbled, crossing his arms in childish annoyance.

Shrugging his shoulders, Bilbo shifted the reigns to one hand so he could pull Frodo into his side, a smile crossing his face as he felt Frodo curl up against him. “There’ll be plenty to see and do once we get to Erebor, my lad. Besides, if you do it all now, what will you do for adventures in the future?”

Bilbo’s logic did not impress the fauntling and he found himself on the receiving end of a poke.

A few minutes later, he felt Frodo tilt his head to look up at the sky and soft sigh escaped from his nephew’s lips. “Uncle Bilbo?”

“Hmm?”

“Are we there yet?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As if it weren't apparent from the books and the movie, the Mirkwood elves have far less of a sense of humor as the rest of the elves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have no idea how excited I am that this is almost to 200 kudos! I've never had this many and it's amazing to me that people are not only reading but enjoying my particular brand of insanity. This is my regular Sunday update. With the end of the semester coming up extremely quick, I may or may not be able to continue to update twice as week as I have been. But for now, enjoy the next chapter!

Frodo thought he liked elves. He couldn’t be sure, because he hadn’t met all of them yet. But ones like Lord Elrond were good. Sure, he was a bit fussy but he didn’t get mad when there might have been a teensy bit of fire. That meant a lot in the course of a friendship.

Yes, elves were good he had decided. And then they entered Mirkwood. Suddenly, Frodo didn’t like elves so much. These didn’t laugh like the ones from Rivendell, who had parted ways with them at the border of the forest. Frodo had been extraordinarily sad to see his friends leave, and if their faces were anything to go by, the Elves of Rivendell were just as loathe to turn them over to their Mirkwood kin. 

The Mirkwood Elves had descended around the cart in silence and gave every indication they would rather be somewhere else. One of them, as nameless as all of them, shot an arrow at something in the gloom that Frodo couldn’t see from his spot in the wagon. From the way Uncle Bilbo flinched, Frodo guessed he didn’t really want to know. Uncle Bilbo flinched a lot actually. Mostly while they were in the mountains but he was doing it again now that they were in the woods. For the first time, he noticed that Uncle Bilbo was wearing his sword. Suddenly, Frodo didn’t feel like such a brave hobbit for convincing his uncle to go back to Erebor.

“We will rest for a few nights in the halls of the woodland king,” a stone-faced guard broke the silence that had been steady for the last two days. Frodo looked between him and his uncle carefully. 

“Er, is that really necessary?” his uncle stuttered. 

Frodo’s eyes snapped to the elf who didn’t bother replying before he darted off to the side as his duty done. “Don’t you want a break, Uncle?” Frodo asked. He squirmed in his little nest and sighed. He’d been stuck in this wagon for ages.

“Dwarrows weren’t the only ones I angered my last time through here,” his uncle muttered out of the side of his mouth. 

Frodo tilted his head to the side and thought about this. “Does this mean I have to be on my best behavior?” he half-whined and glanced hopefully up at his uncle who was shadowed by the deepening gloom of the trees.

“Your very best,” Uncle Bilbo threatened, his shoulders stiff and Frodo sighed. It was so hard to be good.

The following morning found Frodo chanting “be good” over and over in his mind as he followed his uncle up and down pathways that went over very, very steep drops. Frodo had managed to look over one before his uncle had yanked him back and made him swear not to go near the edge again.

“How do you know where we’re going?” Frodo finally asked, hopelessly lost.

“I’ve spent more time in these halls than I would care to,” his uncle responded with a distracted air. Why became evident when a tall blonde elf suddenly materialized in front of them.

“The king would have words with you, Bilbo Baggins.” 

Frodo felt his uncle sigh and he couldn’t help but glare up at the elf even as his mind mantra switched to ‘don’t kick.’ 

“I will escort your charge to breakfast.”

A hand reached out toward him and Frodo pressed himself into Bilbo’s side quickly, grateful when he felt Bilbo’s arm lock around him.

“If it’s all the same to you, he’ll come with me,” his uncle said tartly. “And he’s my nephew, not my ‘charge’.”

If Frodo’s tongue managed to stick its way out of his mouth in the general direction of the stuck-up elf, well, at least Uncle Bilbo couldn’t see it. The elf could, however, and his eyes seemed to narrow.

“Very well,” the elf said and spun on his heels, expecting the two to follow.

The king, Thranduil, was waiting for them in his throne room. When his uncle bowed slightly, Frodo copied him, figuring that was the safest route to being good.

“It has been a while since you have graced my halls, Master Baggins. I trust you are enjoying your stay?”

The words reminded Frodo of the hobbits in the Shire - the ones who said things that usually meant something else and made Uncle Bilbo mad. Frodo chanced a glance up, and yep, Uncle Bilbo was MAD.

That dreadfully polite voice that Frodo knew so well seemed evenly matched with King Thranduil. Soon the two were arguing over bars and barrels and things not related to breakfast, so Frodo stopped listening and started looking for the eyes he felt on him. The elf that had escorted them to the king was standing near the throne watching his every move. Frodo stuck his tongue out again. He’d already decided that being good was overrated.

Apparently, the elf agreed with him because all of a sudden, in a move almost too quick for Frodo to catch, the elf returned the gesture, a hint of laughter in his eyes.

“Legolas!” Thranduil snapped, and the elf’s eyes darted back to the king.

“Yes, ada?” Frodo knew that word. ‘Ada’ was what Elladan and Elrohir called Elrond. Legolas was the son of the king. Huh. Maybe he shouldn’t have stuck his tongue out at him.

The pale king didn’t take his eyes off the hobbits before him. “If you are going to insist on acting like a child, you may join them. Take the young hobbit to breakfast.”

The elf and fauntling regarded each other thoughtfully even as Legolas guided them out of the throne room leaving behind an irate Bilbo and an equally irate king. As the two younglings exited the throne room, entering into the echoing stone passageways that led to the kitchens, two sets of icy blue eyes narrowed at each other.

Having less experience, Frodo broke first. “Did you really set a honey and feather trap in Elrond’s study that covered Ere-, Erer,” here he stumbled over the name because really, all Elvish names sounded alike to him after a while. Legolas knelt in front of the fauntling and peered at him curiously.

“Erestor,” Legolas finally supplied, clearly amused. “You’ve been talking to Elladan and Elrohir.”

Frodo felt a slow smirk creep over his face, one that was matched by the prince a fraction later.

“Little hobbit, I think you and I are going to be good friends,” Legolas said evilly, guiding him toward the kitchens.

Trailing beside the tall prince, Frodo’s smirk bloomed into a wicked grin. He knew he liked Elves for a reason.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long journey to the mountain finally draws to a close. But now what?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...And another chapter makes its way to the surface! Thank you to all who continue to read and comment! As per usual, I don't own anything. My update on Sunday may be a bit late as I will be out of try but it should be up by Monday at the latest! I'm trying to keep this pattern of updates for the foreseeable future!

Eru save him from the elves, Bilbo thought desperately as his cart rattled toward the edge of the forest. His nephew had curled up in his nest of blankets, a grin still lurking on his face, no doubt remembering the screams that they’d left behind them. And here Bilbo thought the twins had been bad. Legolas was ten times worse. By the time they reached Erebor, Frodo was going to be the worst behaved fauntling in the history of the Shire. He suddenly had doubts about bringing Frodo on this trip.

As the elves drew to a stop beside the barge that would carry them on toward the shores before Dale, Bilbo finally let a thought that had been simmering at the back of his mind come forth and he couldn’t help the shudder.

“What’s wrong?” Frodo asked suddenly, his head popping up from behind the seat. He’d become more in tune to his uncle’s moods since leaving Bag End. Bilbo shushed him quickly and went back to contemplating the upcoming horror.

Frodo was going to meet Fíli and Kíli.

Frodo could be as sweet and thoughtful as any hobbit lad, but he was growing into a talent for mischief that had only been encouraged by his time with the elves. It had reached the point that Bilbo was almost certain Frodo and the younger Durins combined would bring down the mountain itself.

Thorin was going to kill him.

Once the floodgate opened up, Bilbo couldn’t stop. He’d been resolutely ignoring all the concerns that had been slowly building up in the back of his mind since leaving the Shire, more concerned with actually making it to Erebor than what laid in wait for him. Now, in the shadow of the mountain, he wondered if he should be regretting his decision to leave the Shire. Again. He worried if the mountain was going to be sturdy enough. He worried about what would happen to Frodo when he inevitably pranked Dwalin. He worried about the dwarrows who had surely returned to the mountain in droves by now and whether they would accept the presence of two hobbits. He worried about Thorin’s reaction to Frodo, and just as importantly how Frodo would react to Thorin. He had spent many hours telling Frodo about life in the mountain but was Frodo truly ready to live like a dwarf? But mostly, he worried about whether or not Thorin truly still wanted him in the mountain. It had, after all, been two years since they had seen each other. And if he didn’t, then this entire trip had been for naught.

The barge slipped through the water almost as fast as the thoughts that tumbled around in his head and before he knew it, Bilbo was staring up at a rebuilt Dale. The last time he had seen these ruins, he had been too distraught to notice the elegance of the demolished city. They were ruins no longer; much had changed in his absence. The wooden scaffolds scattered throughout the city, holding up the few remaining towers left to be rebuilt, did nothing to diminish its sophistication or hide the bustling city it had become. Thorin had called it the center of all trade and for the first time, Bilbo could see why. It was no place for a small country hobbit, no matter what accolades he had claimed for himself in the dragon’s lair.

“You like the wagon, don’t you?” He muttered to Frodo as the gangplank thumped down on the docks.

“No,” Frodo replied, climbing back up onto the seat by Bilbo.

“Don’t you miss the Shire?”

“No.”

“Wouldn’t you rather – “

“No.”

“But wouldn’t you like to see – “

“Thorin. I wanna see Thorin. And the mountain. And all of your other dwarves.”

“Dwarrows,” Bilbo corrected out of habit as he glanced down at Frodo. The lad was staring at him with accusing eyes before he pointed at the mountain with an imperiousness that he must have learned from watching Thranduil during one of the dinners they had been forced to sit through with the elven king. It was also a gesture that distinctly reminded him of a certain dwarf who used to gesture with the same imperiousness (usually down the wrong path), a memory which brought an unexpected but welcome smile to his face.

Bilbo slowly guided the cart onto the forked path that led past Dale, hidden behind large walls toward the now completed gates of Erebor while Frodo sat mesmerized beside him.

Two years had changed the mountain quite a bit, Bilbo admitted silently. The plains that had once been devastated by dragonfire were starting to bloom green once more. The grass was not as lush as that of the Shire, but it was a pleasant dark green that seemed to fit in the shadow of the mountain. The rocky plain before was vast and thoroughly unsuited for farming, but Bilbo could see how it would be good grazing land for the sheep and rams that now dotted its side in pens. Apparently, now that they were no longer dragon fodder, the animals were thriving.

The people were thriving too. Since the city of Dale had been reborn; its towers and walls well on their way to being the city of long ago, trade between Dale and Erebor had been reestablished. As carts rumbled past, going in both directions, his tiny wagon seemed to be lost in the throng of men and dwarrows passing back and forth between the mountain. From the looks of it, it was a market day as many of the wagons headed toward the mountain were carting food and supplies while those streaming from Erebor were carrying dwarven crafts and what looked like precious gems from what could be seen through the tarps.

Feeling small, he was slightly gratified to feel Frodo press up against him, his own wide eyes mirrored in those of his nephew. The last time he’d been here, there had been piles of rubble and dead with plenty to mourn. Now there was new life all around them. There were curious looks from all around and Bilbo realized that to them they must look like two small children making their way through the masses. It was a startling change from the village of Bree. That village was not even a fraction of the size of Dale and at least a fourth of its inhabitants had been hobbits themselves. Bilbo was fairly certain they were the only hobbits for leagues in any direction and resigned himself and Frodo to becoming the newest curiosity.

As the warm afternoon sun beat down on them, Bilbo felt his misgivings return. The stream of people had not stopped though a few had tried to make conversation as they passed. Frodo had not taken long to bond with some of the children who accompanied their parents on their deliveries to the mountain and in fact had hopped off at some point to engage in a game of chase. However, he never strayed far from the wagon and eventually, as the shadows lengthened, he returned to the wagon and curled up against his uncle once more, his eyes wary as they drew closer.

All too soon, they were in the shadow of the mountain and Bilbo suddenly realized he had no idea what to do. He’d never imagined the journey would progress so quickly. He'd always imagined he'd have some plan by this point. It looks like it was improvisation time again, not like he hadn’t had plenty of opportunity for that during his quest with Thorin.

“Well, Frodo, m’lad. Here is your mountain.”

Following the wagon in front of him, as he hadn’t really wanted to argue with the big burly dwarrows directing the traffic from Dale, he barely caught sight of the front gate before their wagon had been shuttled off to a very well hidden track right beside it, disappearing into the dark stone tunnel well lit by gleaming yellow lanterns. His back grew cold as the sun disappeared behind him. Belatedly, he realized that Frodo had never answered.

Before he could look for him, his wagon stopped suddenly as a new dwarrow grabbed Cinnabun’s halter stopping them in the middle of a large hollow. Other carts had been directed to different tunnels seemingly based on the goods they carried, each heading further into the mountain. Within moments, their lone little wagon was the only one in the cavernous space. Bilbo glanced around nervously as several more burly dwarrows appeared at the edges from what looked like guard’s quarters.

“Here now, who’re you?” Bilbo stared down at an armored dwarrow standing next to him in confusion. The dwarrow in question thumbed through what looked like a manifest, his eyebrows narrowed slightly.

“Sorry. I’m so sorry. See, I’m a bit lost, I think.” Bilbo stuttered, noticing with relief that Frodo was still invisible. The lad was smart and if Bilbo was right, had ducked back into the back and was currently hiding under his blankets again.

“I’ll say you are, laddie. Hop on down now like a good lad and let’s see what you’re delivering, eh?”

“Delivering? I’m not delivering anything…”

That was probably not the wisest thing Bilbo could have said and he suddenly found himself yanked off the wagon seat and toward a guard station carved into the green stone of the mountain where he was faced with two more dwarrows who carried far too much weaponry for his comfort.

One of the dwarrows circled him curiously. “You’re a bit young to be making a run up to the mountain, aren’t you lad? Where’s your master?”

They thought he was a child. Bilbo couldn’t figure out if he should be amused or indignant. _Alright Bilbo_ , he thought to himself with a grimace, l _et’s see you get out of this one_. His silence was making the other dwarrows uneasy and one of them stepped a bit closer, hefting his axe. “Mind telling me what you’ve got in the wagon, boy?”

Bilbo heard the rough speech of Khuzdul rumble behind him and it sounded angry. Then again, any time he heard the guttural language of the dwarrows, Bilbo thought they were angry. Either way, he didn’t like when that language was being spoken about him. “What’s in my wagon is no concern of yours, master dwarrows. I’ll thank you not to go poking in it.”

Before he could get out that he was a hobbit on a mission, one of the angry ones behind him finally spoke up. “He’s a spy, Dwog. I bet that filthy master of Laketown sent him up.”

“Trust Master Tanning to send a boy into our mountains. As if he could get past our guards. He weighs less than my axe!” The guards around Bilbo broke into uproarious laughter. Bilbo chuckled weakly along with them but for an entirely different reason. His laughter held a hysterical note but luckily it was well covered.

And to think, all this time Bilbo had worried needlessly about meeting Thorin. That was clearly no longer going to be an issue. Either he was about to spend the rest of his life buried in some deep stony dungeon or, he eyed the axes carefully, summarily beheaded as a spy. Again, he found himself wondering why he ever left the Shire.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per usual, I don't own the fabulous world of The Hobbit or LOTR, that rests solely in the hands of J.R.R. Tolkien. I just like to play around with them. Thank you so much for the kudos and comments! I'm glad to see that everyone is enjoying Bilbo and Frodo's antics! If there is something you would really like to see more of (keeping in mind that I've already got several other stories in the works for this series) please let me know in the comments. You never know what will spark another addition to my little universe at work!

Frodo peeked over the edge of the wagon with his forehead wrinkled, watching as the dwarrows began to interrogate his uncle. Unconsciously, his fingers began twisting in the soft blanket, now trapped between his knees and the side of the cart that had been his nest these last few months. It was travel stained but it was warm and still seemed to Frodo as if it smelled of Bag End. When guards began waving their arms and shouting at each other, Bilbo looked even more worried, his eyes darting back and forth between Frodo in the wagon and the dwarrows. As a few more armored dwarrows trickled out from the walls, Frodo realized that this was starting to be far too much of an adventure for his comfort. 

Though the trouble his uncle was in was definitely in the forefront of his mind, Frodo couldn’t help but let his eyes wander around the cavernous space. He’d never been in a cave like this before. There had been the odd little hollow that Bilbo had shown him while they wandered the woods. But this, this was huge. He craned his neck back to see if he could spot the ceiling but his eyes dropped down rapidly when another excited yell echoed through the chamber. All in all, Frodo could never have imagined so muchspace could be underground – this was not like Bag End at all. When Bilbo had told him the dwarrows lived underground, he thought he meant a nice cozy hobbit hole, not this echoing space with its sharp lines and shiny walls.

He winced as a particularly burly dwarrow began ranting at poor Uncle Bilbo. So far, he was unimpressed with the dwarrows. Anyone who yelled like that at his uncle did not rank very high in his book. Lord Elrond and his elves had never yelled. Well, almost never. Thranduil had never yelled either, but he certainly had been as grumpy as these dwarrows were. _Maybe it’s because we are on the wrong side of the mountain,_ Frodo mused, his eyes gleaming excitedly as his uncle began to shout right back at the dwarrows. If he weren’t so small and they weren’t so big, Frodo was fairly certain he’d be right there beside his uncle. Unfortunately, he was, as his uncle put it, too big for some things and too little for others. This definitely fell into the ‘too little’ category. Oh well, he’d just have to watch Bilbo do what he does best, thrash people without ever raising a finger. _Though,_ Frodo thought wistfully, _a sword would be fun too._

“And what, exactly, are you supposed to be?” A rough but warm finger tapped the back of Frodo’s head gently and Frodo spun around on his knees to stare at the newcomer with trepidation.

As his eyes traveled up and up, Frodo couldn’t help but stare at the sheer amount of drawings the dwarf had on his hands and arms. He made it to the shoulders, covered in a coat of thick fur, before noticing the large axes strapped to the dwarf’s back. He gulped nervously and pressed back against the edge of the cart, the rough wood a comfort at his back.

“What’s yer name, laddie,” the dwarf asked impatiently.

“Frodo,” he whispered, finally looking up to meet fierce dark eyes, which glared at him with suspicion. He gulped again and then tried to be brave like Elladan and Elrohir had taught him.

“I’m Frodo,” he said again, sitting up straighter. It was easier if he didn’t look at him directly in the eye so he stared resolutely at the tip of the dwarrow’s nose instead. “Frodo Baggins. And I’m a hobbit,” he added defiantly at the end.

“Baggins?” The dwarf said sharply and Frodo’s eyes flickered up to meet the dwarrow’s narrowed ones briefly before resuming his contemplation of the warrior’s nose. “You related to Bilbo Baggins?”

Mutely Frodo jerked his thumb behind him at his uncle who was still arguing with the guards. The dwarf stared at the small group at the guard station before looking back at the little hobbit in the cart with a strange, but oddly kind look in his eyes.

“What brings you to the mountain, Master Baggins?” The dwarf asked with apparent casualness, leaning against the cart and Frodo stared at the shift of his muscles in fascination.

“I wanted to see the dwarrows,” he said distractedly, too busy wondering just how tall the dwarf was, because he seemed huge to little Frodo. Even leaning against the cart, his shoulders were the height of Cinnabuns withers and since Frodo had somehow ended up cross-legged while talking to the dwarrow, the difference was even more pronounced.

“Well, here we are,” the guard gestured broadly, and then arched an eyebrow at the tiny hobbit. “Now what?”

“Haven’t seem ‘em all yet. What’s your name, anyway?” Frodo couldn’t explain it but there was something about the dwarrow that made him feel safe. Aunt Lobelia would probably call him crazy. After all, the dwarrow gave every appearance of looking vicious what with the axes and the ink and the crazy mustache. However, he hadn’t made a move to touch Frodo and had even seemed to relax once he’d learned Frodo’s name. He seemed…sturdy. In a good way. But he was asking a lot of questions and not giving Frodo any answers and no Baggins worth his salt would let that go. Not only was Frodo a Baggins but he was also a Took, thus not for the first or last time, Frodo let his mouth run away from him.

The dwarf half-bowed and Frodo caught sight of a shiny head with more drawings before the dwarf was speaking again. “Dwalin, at your service.”

Hearing the name, Frodo perked up. “You’re Dwalin? You know Uncle Bilbo!” Frodo bounced in place as he beamed excitedly.  He'd heard all about the members of the Company from his uncle. Obviously, a lot of those stories had been about Thorin, but Frodo had liked the ones about Fíli and Kíli best, followed by the ones about Dwalin.

With a raised eyebrow, Dwalin stared down at him in amusement.

“Did you really help Fíli and Kíli put rocks in Thorin’s bedroll?”

The dwarrow inclined his head slightly, “Aye, I know your uncle. Can’t say I ever expected to see hobbits in our mountain again,” the dwarf murmured that last part almost as if to himself, smoothing his fingers over his beard.

Frodo did not miss that he hadn’t answered his question about the rocks but that was not nearly as important as the fact that he had found someone who could help Bilbo with the other angry dwarrows. Before Dwalin could stop him, Frodo whirled around excitedly. “Uncle Bilbo,” he called happily, “I found one! Look!” He pointed enthusiastically at Dwalin as Bilbo’s head snapped around to stare at the cart.

As the guards got even more excited, Frodo watched as Bilbo’s face paled dramatically, his eyes drifting up and over Frodo’s head. Turning back around, Frodo glanced up at Dwalin in confusion, noticing that the kindly gleam in the dwarrow’s eyes had suddenly disappeared. What was going on?

A stream of garbled sounding words poured out of Dwalin’s mouth as Frodo caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Feeling like he was watching some sort of game of tag, Frodo’s eyes bounced back and forth between Dwalin and the guards who were now doing some kind of shuffling dance, their faces taking on an embarrassed look.

“Do ye not realize what you’ve done?” Frodo heard behind him and absently realized that Dwalin had switched languages while he had been staring at the guards with interest.

“How were we to know who he was?” One dwarrow shot back, but flinched as Dwalin reared up to his full height. Even Frodo shrank back; it was hard not to as Dwalin made quite an impressive sight when he got angry.

“Did you ask him, ye bloody idiot? Could you not tell he wasn’t a human? And look at this wagon,” he gestured at the wagon and at Frodo. The guards and Frodo regarded each other. Frodo stared wide-eyed at the guards, trying to appear as nonthreatening as possible, which for a hobbit is quite a lot. The guards regarded him with a great deal of bewilderment and Frodo could see that they had lost their bluster, milling around with much shaking of their heads and low mutters.

“Does this look like something out of Laketown? These wheel rims are from the Blue Mountains, not our make. And he’s got a bloody child in the cart! What spies bring their children with them?” Frodo attempted not to be insulted; after all, Legolas had told him that for a non-elf, he’d been quite good at spying. Tilting his head, he watched as Dwalin continued to rant.

“You lot are all absolutely useless. Report to me in the morning. I think it’s time for a refresher course.” Frodo watched in awe as a single scowling look from Dwalin squelched any and all comments from the now thoroughly chagrined group. What he wouldn’t give to see Dwalin yell at Aunt Lobelia like that, Frodo thought to himself with glee.

One by one, the dwarrows melted back into the walls. Frodo smirked as each gave a slight bow to Bilbo, who began to look a little flustered at the sudden change in attention.

“Hello, Dwalin. I must say, you’ve got good timing,” Bilbo said, coming over to the wagon. Frodo reached out and patted him reassuringly on the arm and counted it as a victory when Bilbo gave him a warm, if half-hearted smile.

“Let’s see about getting you settled,” Dwalin said to Frodo, tapping him gently on the nose. Moving forward to grab Cinnabun’s halter, he shot a glance back over his shoulder and raised his eyebrows in annoyance. “Are you coming or not, Bilbo?”

With a resigned sigh, Bilbo clambered up into the wagon as Frodo let his arms drape over the side so he could watch Dwalin lead the cart. There was something wrong. Dwalin seemed like he could be nice. Gruff, but nice. But why was he being mean to Uncle Bilbo? All those stories Bilbo had told him made him think that the two were friends. Dwalin always looked out for Uncle Bilbo and made sure he was safe. According to Uncle Bilbo, Dwalin would even talk about cooking. Even though apparently Dwalin couldn’t cook very well, he always liked to talk about good meals. Uncle Bilbo had said so.

Frodo eyed Dwalin with a calculating stare as Dwalin handed off the job of leading the cart to a young dwarrow, who looked chuffed at the duty he’d been trusted with, and dropped back to walk beside Frodo. Not Bilbo.

Glancing up, Frodo eyes met Dwalin’s confused ones, the warrior was staring at him with some degree of confusion. With an innocent smile Frodo went back to staring in fascination at the axes bobbing right next to him. Ever since the cart had started moving again, the little group hadn’t said a word. Frodo was so tired of riding in a wagon in silence. He thought they’d gotten over that once they’d left the elves at the edge of the lake.

“Are you mad at Uncle Bilbo?” He asked suddenly, risking a finger by poking the broad shoulder next to him.

“Yes,” Dwalin snapped and Frodo saw Bilbo’s shoulders slump out of the corner of his eye. Unknowingly, his own shoulders slumped too, mirroring his uncle’s movements. Curling in on himself, he started picking at the edge of his blanket, a habit he’d developed shortly after his parents had died. Uncle Bilbo said he shouldn’t do that anymore, but his fingers needed something to do. He really wanted to like living under the mountain, but if all the dwarrows were as grumpy as Dwalin, it might not be as much fun as he thought. Maybe he could fix this. Turning his head, he looked shyly up at Dwalin. The furrowed brow didn't disappear, but Dwalin did reach out and ruffle his hair gently in apology.

“Why are you mad at him?”

“Ask him yourself,” Dwalin replied with a shake of his head.

“Tried that. Why?”

“Leave him alone, Frodo,” Bilbo ordered calmly, his eyes trained on the pony’s ears.

“But – “

“Now.”

“Do I at least get to meet Thorin?” Frodo asked impatiently, changing the subject abruptly.

Bilbo chanced a glance at Dwalin who simply eyed Frodo curiously before asking, “Why would you want to do that, little one?”

“Cause Uncle Bilbo loves him.”

Frodo blinked and furrowed his brow as his uncle choked then motioned for him to be quiet.  Why wouldn't he explain to his new friend?  Bilbo motioned frantically again, but Frodo ignored him as he continued with all the tact of a warhammer. "They didn’t like us in the Shire and I didn’t like them so I convinced Uncle Bilbo that he needed to come back because he still loves Thorin and I wanted to meet dwarrows and the mountain sounded interesting and – “ 

Frodo's explanation ground to a halt as he found Bilbo's hand clapped over his mouth. At some point, Bilbo had twisted around and all but leapt at him during his little speech. He tried to talk louder, but it just came out muffled.  Frodo didn't miss his uncle's sigh, but he couldn’t understand what he'd done wrong. He was just telling the truth. At least it was Uncle Bilbo's "don't ask me again why fauntlings have to take baths" sigh rather than the "Aunt Lobelia won't stop talking" sigh.  

Dwalin watched them with what passed as a smirk on his face before the cart rattled to a stop. “Follow me,” he rumbled stalking up a set of stairs.

As Frodo’s feet touched the ground, he tried to sprint after Dwalin, but found himself nose to nose with his uncle instead, who had lifted him out of the cart.

“Not. Another. Word.”

Frodo glared up at his uncle before squirming away and racing to catch up with Dwalin. So the dwarrows were large and mostly angry sounding, Frodo decided as he chattered to his new friend. But Uncle Bilbo was right, they do have good hearts. If more of them are like Dwalin, then he just might like living under a mountain. Curiosity finally got the better of him and he looked up at Dwalin, “Can you teach me to use a sword like you did Uncle Bilbo?”

A strangled noise sounded behind him and Frodo twisted to gaze at Bilbo in concern. Bilbo was staring back at him with a look of pure horror on his face and his new friend was chuckling beside him.

“I’ll see what I can do,” the gruff old warrior replied, patting Frodo on the head again. There was much eye rolling on Frodo’s part but he put up with the patting because clearly Dwalin did not understand hobbits. _That’s okay_ , Frodo thought, _I’m not going anywhere._ There would be plenty of time to teach them how to deal with a hobbit.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for not getting a chapter up in the middle of the week. I ended up revamping the end of my story a bit and needed to make sure I had the next few chapters in line before starting to post them. I promise, promise, promise, that Thorin is going to show up soon. But there's a few things that need to happen before he makes his grand entrance. Much love to my Beta for helping me with this and the next few chapters that follow. She put in a lot of man-hours to help me get it done! Thank you for all the lovely comments and I hope you enjoy the next chapter! Keep those comments and kudos coming, they inspire me to write like nothing else does!
> 
> (P.S. Against my wishes, I still own nothing related to Tolkien and just play with them for my own amusement.)

Dwalin had led them through halls that seemed vaguely familiar to Bilbo. Of course, since there was no dragon chasing him to give him a frame of reference, he couldn’t really be sure of anything. He honestly tried to _not_ think about the dragon all that much as the wyrm still featured prominently in his nightmares. Frodo had picked up on his reluctance to discuss the dragon in detail, mercifully, and asked as many questions as he could about the dwarrows instead during their nighttime story rituals.

After several long minutes of traveling up and down what seemed to be random staircases, they entered a section of the mountain that seemed almost pristine compared to where they’d been before. Clearly, this area had been untouched by Smaug, his massive body unable to slither through the many narrow entryways that Dwalin had led them past. The many doors and dizzying array of stairs made Bilbo wonder how on earth the dwarrows could find their way around without getting hopelessly lost. He was having a difficult time keeping track and he normally had an excellent head for maps. Shaking his head tiredly, Bilbo chalked it up to fatigue from the four-month journey and left it at that. He would worry about memorizing his way around tomorrow. The mountain would still be there in the morning.

The room that Dwalin left them standing in, after a gruff admonishment to stay put, was very well appointed for whatever it was. If Bilbo didn’t know any better, he’d say it had the appearance of a family receiving room, though on a far grander scale than anything found in the Shire. Dwalin disappeared silently for such a large dwarrow and Bilbo couldn’t help but smile as Frodo stared longingly after his new friend. 

Turning his attention away from his pouting nephew, Bilbo began taking stock of the unfamiliar room. There were thick plush rugs and comfortable looking chairs scattered throughout the room and a fireplace, though at the moment it was stone-cold. The ceiling was high enough he couldn’t even see it and there were giant tapestries that unfurled from the inky blackness above. Bilbo couldn’t remember ever seeing this room. Not even after the dragon had left and they were attempting to find sleeping quarters for the night. As Bilbo leaned over to examine the chair in front of the fireplace, he noticed that the stitching that he’d originally thought was just faded yellow thread gleamed far more brightly than thread had any right too. It was gold. A gold spun so fine that it could be used to stitch the well tended leather into what looked like an extremely comfortable cushion. 

Bilbo jerked upright as he had a flash of insight. He was far into the mountain, and from what he could tell, well away from any of the common areas. If he thought about it from Dwalin’s perspective, it was probably one of the most highly defensible places in the entire mountain with many nooks and crannies that could be used for cover. Though the furnishings of the room gave it a cozier feel, the furnishings themselves were of the finest make Bilbo had ever seen. Unless he missed his guess, they had just been escorted into the very heart of the royal quarters.

Bilbo blinked and shook himself briefly before moving to sit on one of the chairs. He sank into its warmth, ignoring the fact that he was sitting on something probably worth more than all the furnishings in his own smial and relished in the fact that for once he was not on something moving. He swore he could still feel his bones vibrating from the wagon.

 “Why was he covered in drawings?” Frodo suddenly asked, and Bilbo cracked an eye open to watch as Frodo continued to wander around the room. He honestly hadn’t even remembered closing his eyes.

“Oh, they aren’t drawings. They’re tattoos. Dwarrows and men sometimes get them. They usually tell stories,” he finally replied watching as his nephew reached up to trace a sparkling vein in the rock walls that surrounded them.

“Can I get one?”

“Absolutely not,” Bilbo replied with heartfelt sincerity and then closed his eyes again. The mention of Dwalin had reminded Bilbo of the rather cool greeting he had received. While Dwalin wasn’t known for being chatty, he had been downright icy with Bilbo, a fact that saddened him greatly. By the end of the journey, Dwalin had become a good friend. All of the dwarrows had been his friends. He sincerely hoped the rest of the company were more forgiving. Dwalin had always been extraordinarily loyal to Thorin and was no doubt still angry on the behalf of his liege. Whether it was for the blatant disregard he’d shown by turning over the Arkenstone to the Elves or the temerity of returning to the Shire, only time would tell. No doubt, Dwalin had seen either asa faithless act of the worst kind.  And Dwalin did not forgive easily. Bilbo snorted softly. It wasn't all that long ago that he would have stood toe to toe with Dwalin and argued that the company had done him grave wrong.  But it no longer seemed to matter to Bilbo who had wronged who.  He just wanted to see his friends again, and he was willing to let them think whatever necessary to repair the rift.  Still. Despite that, Dwalin really hadn’t needed to give Frodo such  _bad ideas_. That was uncalled for. 

“Do you know what that one means?” Bilbo heard Frodo ask, his voice faintly muffled. Since he was still within ear-shot, Bilbo didn’t trouble himself by opening his eyes.

“What does what mean?” 

“The symbols on this picture.” No doubt, Frodo was pointing at one of the tapestries that lined the room. However, Bilbo did not know much about the secret language of the dwarrows, who had managed to maintain that secrecy for most of their journey. He certainly did not know enough to translate anything that Frodo could find in the room. The brief glimpse of etchings and symbols in the room he’d caught before his eyes had decided they were better off closed seemed to indicate people. Since they were in the royal section of the mountain, they were most likely discussing the might of the house of Durin and Bilbo told Frodo this without bothering to open his eyes. As he didn’t hear any more questions, he assumed that he’d satisfied the lad for now.

Feeling truly secure for the first time since he left Hobbiton, Bilbo finally allowed himself to drift. He had made it to the mountain. He was actually  _in_  the mountain. Both he and Frodo had survived the trip. While in his heart he knew that traveling to Erebor would not be a simple thing, he had thought that it would be easier the second time around. Physically it had been a great deal easier, no orcs for one thing. But his mind had been whirling from the moment he had told Frodo they were going home, which caused its own kind of tiredness. Bilbo inhaled deeply, the cool, sharp tang of the mountain filling him with a sense of peace. At last, he was home. With that knowledge, Bilbo let the bone deep exhaustion finally take over and he slept.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as an FYI, there is yet another story outlined that will fall in-line as a prequel to Heartbeat which details precisely how things went so very wrong between Bilbo and Thorin and everything that happens in the 2 years prior to this. So if anything in the next few chapters seems a little vague, it's intended to be because it's next on my to-write list. Enjoy the this latest update! As usual, I own nothing but the thoughts in my head. Thank you to those who comment and give me kudos because like always, they keep me going!

So complete was Bilbo’s exhaustion that he never heard the door creak open, revealing two expectant faces. But like any parent, he was exceptionally well tuned to the voice of his child so he did hear Frodo’s voice echo across the room, loud enough to startle him out of his nap. “Who are you?”

“Fíli, do you see what I see?” 

Bilbo bolted to his feet, suddenly wide awake, as Kíli pushed the door open the rest of the way and Bilbo quickly darted across the room to tuck Frodo behind him.  Although he'd resolved to be as amiable as possible when reuniting with the company, that didn’t stop him from glaring.  “You see absolutely nothing, Kíli.”  He noticed that the youngest Durins entered the room with an uncharacteristic sobriety, and he lifted his chin even as he felt his stomach drop.  Bilbo had hoped these two, of all his friends, would be most open to his return. However, he knew now, seeing the tense shoulders and blank faces, that nothing about this was going easy.

The brothers continued their approach still eyeing Frodo.  “It’s a mini-hobbit,” Kili said reverently.

“Not a mini-hobbit,” Frodo grumbled from behind Bilbo with indignation. “I’m still growing.”

Bilbo sighed and rubbed his hand over his eyes. “Hello, Fíli. Hello Kíli,” he said pointedly as his hand dropped down to tangle into Frodo’s curls. Whether it was to tether himself or Frodo he still wasn’t sure. Either way, feeling the soft curls under his fingers made his shoulders relax minutely.

Watching him from the corners of their eyes, as if he might disappear, Fíli and Kíli merely nodded in acknowledgement of his greeting as they edged further into the room. 

“So, you’re back,” Kíli half-asked, half stated as he stared at Bilbo with unsure eyes. 

Bilbo’s heart broke at the hesitant words. Both boys looked at him as if they were uncertain how to act around him.  It was a marked difference from the easy-going bond he'd grown used to on their journey together. Those boys had become his family.  More than anything, it was a sign to Bilbo of just how much had changed during his absence. Of the two, Kíli looked far more happy to see him. But Fíli, Yavanna help him, looked exactly like Thorin, with crossed arms and a blank face. Bilbo drew a shaky breath. “I am,” he agreed calmly, resolving to maintain his own shreds of dignity. "I am back." 

Fíli had yet to actually say anything but Bilbo heard him exhale sharply as if he’d been waiting to see if Bilbo would in fact, be staying. 

“Thank, Mahal,” Kíli breathed quietly. “Uncle has been horrible the last few months.  Wouldn't listen when I told him it was nonsense.” Kíli continued, letting out a huff of his own as though he despaired of his uncle.  A furrow wrinkled Fíli’s brow as he narrowed his eyes at his brother.  A shake of his head, and Kíli shut his mouth abruptly on whatever he was going to say next.  

Silence fell awkwardly over the group as Bilbo struggled to adjust to the conversation.  That…was not what he'd expected to hear. He blinked rapidly as he tried to process. He had predicted recriminations, accusations, and every form of anger, really. Not relief. Admittedly, he had wondered many times how Thorin was, what he was doing, and, if he were honest with himself, if Thorin was suffering.  To hear it proclaimed out loud, by his own kin no less, was oddly disheartening. While he had wondered if Thorin was suffering, he had actually hoped that Thorin had found happiness after retaking his mountain.  Surely both of them had not spent the last two years utterly miserable. And if that was the case, then why had no one ever bothered to come get him, if he truly was the source of Thorin’s misery.

“What happened?” Bilbo asked cautiously, trying not to hope that Thorin could actually be  _pining_  for him. If that stubborn, pig-headed dwarrow had missed Bilbo as much as Bilbo had missed him and hadn’t done anything about it, they were going to have words. Lots of words. Lots of  _angry_  words. He’d only left because he’d been banished. Even the company had given every indication of following that order. No one had sought him out after the battle. No one had even bothered to see if he lived. After he’d recovered from an unfortunate head-butt and an untimely thrown rock, Bilbo had tried to visit the company only to be turned away by the guards as he neared what had become the dwarrow camp. It hadn't taken him long after that to decide he’d be better off in the Shire than where he clearly wasn’t wanted.

The ranting in his head came to a screeching halt as Fíli finally addressed him. “As if you didn’t know.”

“Know what?” Bilbo demanded. 

Fíli’s eyes narrowed sharply as he stared intently at Bilbo. What he was hoping to find Bilbo had no idea. He felt Frodo shifting restlessly against his leg and he experienced a slight twinge of regret. Poor Frodo had yet to actually meet a happy dwarrow so far.

“You really don’t know, do you?” Fíli finally said as his eyes widened in shock. Next to him, Kíli smiled broadly, almost smug, as he crossed his arms and shifted back on his feet. 

Now, Bilbo was irritated. “Are you planning on sharing what exactly it is I don't know with me or not?”

“You left,” Fíli said with a confused look on his face. “You never --. You didn’t even say good-bye!" 

"Neither did you."  Bilbo had promised himself before he left the Shire that no matter what happened he would remember that he hadn’t actually done anything wrong. That he was the one who had been banished. That they were the ones who had steadfastly ignored him for the last two years. He wanted to make peace; to finally have his friends back, but there would be no peace if he had to beg for it.

Kíli grinned at Bilbo's feistiness, but Fíli continued as if he hadn't heard, "And then Ori said you-“ Fíli turned to glance at Kíli who raised his hands as if to say _don’t look to me_ and continued smirking.  

When Fíli didn't continue, Bilbo tilted his head. “Ori? What does Ori have to do with anything?” Now Bilbo was really confused. He glanced around as if there might be someone else in the room capable of giving him a straight answer before finally settling on Kíli with an expectant look. 

“He said you had a son,” Kíli added when Bilbo looked at him, taking pity on his brother’s inability to finish a complete sentence.

There was a long pause as Bilbo processed this news.  Fíli shifted restlessly while Kíli once again crossed his arms over his chest.  Bilbo looked at the floor his nostrils flaring as he drew in sharp breaths. Calm. He definitely needed to remain calm.  Finally, with an exaggerated gesture, Bilbo turned his head to look at Frodo.  He rubbed his nephew's soft curls reassuringly, smiling softly when Frodo bit his lip, before looking back up at the sons of Durin.  Fíli was still staring at him as if he couldn’t quite figure out why Bilbo was there, but Kíli’s amusement seemed to grow by the minute.

“This is my nephew, Frodo,” Bilbo said slowly, his bewilderment growing by leaps and bounds. “But I certainly consider him my son.” He felt Frodo straighten up importantly against his leg.

“So you aren’t married.” Kíli stated with the air of one who'd said the same thing repeatedly before.  He grunted as Fíli’s hand whapped him in the stomach.

“Married?!  Who on earth told you I was married?” Before either one could get an answer out, Bilbo quickly held up his hand. “Never mind. I don’t think I really want to know. This is why you thought I left?”

At the slow nodding of both their heads, Bilbo pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “And this is why Thorin is being horrible?” Kíli nodded again while Fíli shrugged.

“He really missed you,” Fíli added softly, a ghost of a smile finally lurking on his lips. “And so have we.”

“All of us,” Kíli was quick to amend. “See, Fíli? I told you that this was all one big misunderstanding.”

“No one wrote because you all thought I was married."  Bilbo could feel Frodo's head rubbing against his leg as the young hobbit tried to follow the conversation.  He shifted his hand down to Frodo's shoulder while he contemplated this new information.  It explained some things, but not everything.  Two years was an awfully long time for it to just be a misunderstanding of his marital status.  Bilbo sighed.  "There’s more to this than just me being married, isn’t there?” he asked with a resigned air. When both boys ducked their heads and shuffled their feet, Bilbo groaned. “Alright, let’s have it.”

This time it was Kíli, normally expressive Kíli, whose face closed up. “It’s not really our story to tell,” he grumbled. “But as a prince of Erebor and an heir of the house of Durin, please accept my formal apology for the behavior of my kin and our company."  Kíli straightened his back under Bilbo's astonished stare.  "We’re sorry, Bilbo. For everything.” Fíli nodded his head firmly as his brother finished speaking, his face equally set.

Staring, Bilbo realized something had gone very wrong while he was away, and the lads he'd left had grown into warriors. His boys no longer, Fíli and Kíli truly were princes, authorities in their own right and what Kíli was offering was no small apology. Bilbo did the only thing he could.  “I accept your apology and offer one of my own. I should not have left things as they were. Believe me when I say, I thought I was doing the right thing.”

Kíli’s face brightened immeasurably at Bilbo’s response and as suddenly as the princely face had appeared it disappeared. With a small bit of relief, Bilbo watched as the youthful dwarrow he had known reappeared in an instant. “I knew you would say that!” He cheered, bouncing eagerly on his toes. Bilbo couldn’t help but laugh and finally, finally, Fíli gave a full-fledged grin.

“Now, are you going to come out and say hello?” Kíli asked dropping down to a knee so that he could look Frodo in the eye.

Despite his misgivings, Bilbo edged to the side, exposing Frodo who, he could see, had been watching the entire exchange with narrowed eyes. Heaven knows what he must have thought about all of that, but it couldn’t be helped. If they truly were to make Erebor their home, there were many things that needed to be said and not all of them were going to be as pleasant or as easy as it had been with Fíli and Kíli.  Bilbo was just grateful Frodo had witnessed one of the more calm discussions.  

For his efforts at being charming, Kíli received a soft “Hello,” from Frodo who had replied automatically, and then proceeded to tilt his head at them in curiosity.

Kneeling down beside his brother, Fíli regarded Frodo with amusement. “So this is what a baby hobbit looks like.”

“I'm almost 11 years old.  And I’m called a fauntling, not a baby” Frodo said haughtily, crossing his arms.

“No, I know what he is.  He's a mini-hobbit,” Kíli corrected both of them.

Bilbo just groaned. So far, his day had wrecked havoc on his nerves and sent his emotions on a whirlwind. The fact that Fíli and Kíli were reacting to Frodo precisely how Bilbo had predicted was both comforting and terrifying at the same time.

Frodo tilted his head to the other side as he continued to regard the princes before him. “Are you brothers?”

When they nodded their heads in unison, each flashing an unholy grin, Bilbo rolled his eyes. Fleetingly, he wondered if they practiced that move because it was too perfect not to be rehearsed.

 “If I’m a mini-hobbit, are you a mini-dwarf?” Frodo continued innocently as he shifted his gaze to Kíli.

At that, Fíli outright laughed.  “This is what happens when you keep your beard short, Kíli,” he crowed. "If you grew it out, it'd at least hide your tiny legs."

"You’re one to talk with your dainty little hands. And my legs aren’t tiny."

"You're right.  They aren't tiny.  It's your itty-bitty face that's tiny.  Looks like a baby, it does."

Frodo's eyes grew more round as his head bounced back and forth trying to keep up with the verbal volleying.  Bilbo already regretted the influence he could see growing by the second. 

“I’m every bit of an adult as you are, Fí.” Kíli shot back in annoyance.

“As if either one of you ever grew up,” Bilbo muttered feeling forgotten in the excitement of finding a new playmate. 

When the lads flashed identical evil smiles at him, Bilbo felt a chill crawl up his spine but Frodo beamed as happily as when he had met the twins of Rivendell. Bilbo knew nothing good come from those smiles especially when Frodo abruptly mustered one of the most pathetic, and fake, looks Bilbo had ever seen.

“I don’t have any brothers,” Frodo informed the Durins despondently.

Kíli, however, nodded solemnly as if he were hearing a grievance at court, giving it the consideration it clearly deserved.  

“You are good,” Fíli said with a gleam in his eye. “But we’ll make you better.”

Still nodding, but now in agreement, Kíli laughed. “We,” he declared before grabbing Frodo under the arms and tossing him gently in the air, “have so much to teach you.” 

Exhaling in shock, Bilbo watched as Frodo let out a squeal of delight when Kíli tossed him to Fíli.  “Fíli! Kíli! Put. Him. Down.” Bilbo all but snapped.  "He's not one of my plates!" As one the unholy trio froze in place, staring at him with wounded expressions.

Bilbo pointed at Fíli and Kíli in turn.  "Don't think for one second those looks will work on me."  

Fíli was opening his mouth to defend their actions when the stone door on the other side of Kíli creaked open again.  Its sound echoed loudly throughout the room bouncing up into the ceiling before fading away. The noise drew Bilbo’s gaze from Fíli who still had Frodo clutched in his grasp. His gaze passed over the gold-threaded chairs. It passed over Kíli, still frozen in a comical pose with his arms outstretched to catch a now pouting Frodo. It passed grey stone and silk tapestry before stuttering to a stop on blue velvet robes. 

In that split second, the universe shifted.

Framed by the light in the hallway and dressed in what passed for casual robe was the culmination of all of Bilbo’s hopes and fears.  There stood the king of Erebor.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief interlude featuring Thorin and his many regrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening, dear Readers! Welcome to another installment of Heartbeat Under the Mountain! So...I've never tried writing Thorin before and as I started I realized just how much of a Broody McBroody Pants he actually is. This chapter would have never seen the light of day without my beta (who in actuality wrote about 75% of it for me - so kudos to her!!!). This chapter will not provide much in the way of furthering the plot, but it will help explain what happens in the next two chapters and what Bilbo is up against it. 
> 
> Your comments have made me laugh and made me think very seriously about how and why and what I'm doing with my story for Mahal's sake, keep those comments and kudos coming! I'm beyond pleased that my story is now on page 19 (which is far closer to page 1 than I ever thought I would get). Thank you for showing your support!
> 
> As always, I don't own Tolkien's characters. It's all him. I just like to poke at them with sharp sticks and see what happens.

Thorin wasn't surprised to see Bilbo was even more beautiful than he remembered.  His face wasn't quite as rounded as before but it only drew more attention to the petite bump that was his nose and the fullness of his lips.  Bilbo’s hair, though a little longer, still had that same spun gold quality and riotous curls as it had two years ago.

But his eyes, they were flat and cold without the twinkle Thorin could recall so well.  Thorin dearly missed that twinkle.  But it was just another thing for his list 

All the bankers in Erebor could not tally the list of things that Thorin regretted in life.  As Thorin stood before Bilbo in the royal receiving rooms he couldn't help but think on each and every one of his regrets. 

There were the obvious, normal ones that any in his company could lay claim to, as they could were a part of all life. Words spoken in anger, opportunities wasted, knowledge not fully realized before it was rendered useless.  Childish spats and the folly of youth. These are the regrets that all creatures collect simply by living, and Thorin had just many as the next dwarrow.

These regrets were numerous enough for most, but Thorin's pain ran deeper than the common worries of the living.  For he was of the line of Durin and responsible for the worries of all his people as well as his own.  Anyone who had ruled knew precisely how much regret became a part of a royal's daily life.  And so Thorin could also add to his tally alliances that fell and hasty, unwise decisions. There were courtiers who couldn't be trusted and emissaries that could and all too often the lines crossed, were confused, and mislabeled. A royal who made only one minor mistake in the course of a day would be remembered as a great king. Even as a prince, Thorin did his best but to rule is to make the best of a series of bad choices.

Still, he could live with those regrets.  He'd been born and raised to rule.  Those regrets were largely not of his making and he could accept that. The regrets that he could not forget were the ones that were far more personal and grew out of a litany of actions that had proven – unwise – with disastrous consequences.

His decision to turn his attention elsewhere while Thror grew mad with dragon sickness.  His choice to remain silent as his father wrestled with his own madness and desire to reclaim Moria against overwhelming odds.  The years of reticent rule as his people struggled to find a place for themselves away from their homes. So much had been lost to silence.

And even then it didn't end.

The death toll on his conscience was intolerably high.  His grandfather.  His father.  His mother and his brother.  Their deaths lingered as a weight on his heart that could never be lifted because he had realized far too late that he should have spoken against his grandfather long before the dragon descended on the mountain.  But, more than the loss of his family, he was plagued by the deaths of his people.  Deaths he had caused.  Those who were lost to the dragon.  Those who fell at the mines of Moria.  And worst of all, those who were slain as a result of Thorin's stubborn pride in the final battle against the pale orc. 

It was his stubborn pride, forever unwilling to learn its lesson, that had caused him to push past his endurance while he was healing.  So Thorin added to his regrets his relapse a few months into his recovery forcing him to leave Fíli to rule alongside Dain while he spent interminable months as a Mahal-foresaken invalid.  He'd watched his heirs shed the frivolity of their youth as they stood between him and the world and stepped up to the task of rebuilding Erebor. Thorin silently added another tally to his list as he watched Fíli and Kíli mature and become the heirs to the House of Durin far sooner than they should have been.

Thorin exhaled as he leaned a shaking hand against the frame of the door.  As wary brown eyes dulled of their usual sparkle raked quickly over him, Thorin was aware of himself as a dwarrow with much to regret.  However, in his many regrets, there was one that he regretted above all others, and it weighed far heavier on his heart than he ever thought possible. 

Bilbo. 

It always came back to Bilbo. 

Thorin had wronged his hobbit on so many levels.  He had insulted and belittled him.  He had placed Bilbo's life at risk more times than he could recall.  But, perhaps most damning of all, he had failed to protect Bilbo from Thorin himself.  

He had known that Bilbo was his One, and he tried to distance himself.  Bound to a hopeless quest, it had seemed the only option. Thorin wouldn't have nearly so much to regret if he'd accomplished that one little task.  But Bilbo was the light to Thorin's dark, the green grass to his grey stone, the forgiveness to his regret, and Thorin had been no more capable of avoiding Bilbo than he had been able to abandon the quest.  

Which made what was to follow only that much more painful.  Thorin could remember the ache he felt for the Arkenstone.  It had replaced the longing he used to feel for Erebor. Nothing else had mattered. Not the increasing unease of the company.  Not the worried glances of his nephews. Not the shattered expression of his One, his Bilbo, as Thorin held him over the gates.

Of all his misdeeds and wrongs, it was actually the lack of remorse that he most regretted.  The madness had consumed him, and he hadn't even been ashamed. He had been righteous in his surety that he was the one who had suffered injustice. 

So, although he hadn’t known it at the time, at the top of the gates of Erebor, at his moment of triumph, Thorin had crowned himself King and crowned his One as that which he'd most regret. It wasn't until the pale orc stood over him, death whispering a soft promise of relief, that Thorin realized his regret lay not in betrayal but loss.

The loss of his light, his hope of forgiveness, his worth.  

The loss of sanity that he would always regret.  

Now staring the beautiful face of his beloved, Thorin felt it was only right he be forced to confront the culmination of his regrets in the halls below where they'd born fruition. With a steadying breath, he raised his eyes, prepared for the judgment that was surely waiting for him, ready to atone for his sins.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for patiently waiting for the next update! I'm beyond pleased at the response this story has gotten and I hope you guys stick around for a while. I've got a lot of material floating around in my head to along with this story. It might take me a while to get it into posting shape, but I hope you all will keep up with it! This is by far the longest chapter I have to date in this universe and I hope it was worth the wait. It was a nightmare to write. Trying to find the balance between Bilbo and Thorin was very, very difficult. I hope you guys enjoy! Please keep reviewing and commenting! They encourage me to continue writing like nothing else.

Bilbo froze, transfixed, as if he couldn’t remember how to move.   It felt as if time itself had stopped. Not his heart, as he'd heard professed so often before, but rather the entire world around him.  Everything had frozen unwilling to go forward and yet unable to go back. In that heartbeat both Bilbo and Thorin stood as if statues, a palpable tension between the two that rendered each incapable of looking away from the other.

If Bilbo had been able to tear his eyes away from Thorin, he would have seen Frodo staring, jaw agape at the imposing sight that Thorin made. He would have seen Fíli and Kíli shoot each other worried looks before their eyes began darting back and forth between Bilbo and Thorin. But all Bilbo could see were the lines drawn around Thorin’s eyes, from squinting or pain, he couldn’t tell. He saw that Thorin was thinner now than ever before, from not eating or from illness, again, Bilbo wasn’t sure. All of a sudden, Bilbo was not sure of a lot of things.

The stillness was broken when Fíli handed Frodo to Kíli.  Stepping forward to stand by Bilbo, Fíli broke the silence. “Uncle, there’s something you should know.” 

Thorin's head turned toward Fíli without his eyes leaving Bilbo’s.  At the last second, he gave his full attention to the three younglings.  His dark glare morphed to confusion as he looked down at the hobbit that was safely ensconced now in Kíli’s arms. Bilbo couldn't understand the strange look that flashed across Thorin’s face but it almost looked like a mix of of longing and sadness.  Whatever it had been had made Bilbo’s heart sink into the vicinity of his toes.

As Thorin opened his mouth, Fíli shook his head and rushed to explain.  “This is Frodo and you have all the time in the world to meet him properly. Suffice for now to say that he is Bilbo’s  _nephew_ ,” he stressed, “and you can ask him all about their journey at dinner.  For now you really, really need to speak with Bilbo first.”

When Frodo opened up his mouth, no doubt ready to protest this rather abrupt introduction to the cause of his adventure, Kíli clapped his hand quickly over the young hobbit’s mouth and began to back out of the room. “We are going to go find something to eat. Come find us when you are done,” he said with an air of finality.

Still gaping at Kíli’s retreating back, Bilbo wasn't prepared for Fíli’s clap to his shoulder and he stumbled forward under the weight.  “Bilbo is my friend and was once much more than that to you, Uncle. I’d say that earns him the right to make his explanations and hear some of his own,” Fíli said calmly, not giving an inch even though it was his King and not his uncle that stood before them. “There have been miscommunications on all sides and now we finally have a chance to make things right. Kíli, Bilbo, and I have made our amends. Now it is your turn.”

Fíli turned slightly and gave Bilbo an encouraging smile which Bilbo returned as he watched Fíli fix his gaze on Thorin once more. “Go easy on him, Thorin,” Fíli said gently. “I’d wager that he’s just as confused as you.”

Thorin shifted his weight, his posture sinking from one of aggression ever so subtly into amusement.  Quirking his eyebrow, he gestured smoothly at Fíli to continue. 

“You know as well as I that I don't wager unless I’m going to win,” Fíli smirked back at Thorin. Bilbo noticed his posture had also eased with that little quip and once again marveled at the dwarrow before him. Fíli had definitely come into his own. “In fact, I’ll wager you one week of supervising trade agreements with Dale that I’m right.”  Without waiting for agreement, Fíli started toward the same door Kíli and Frodo had disappeared through minutes ago.  "Just remember, you should actually talk to each other and not just yell. I'm going to find Kíli and Frodo. We’ll be in the kitchen. Come find us after you kiss and make up.”

And with that, Fíli disappeared, only to pop his head back in and stare at his uncle with narrowed eyes. “If you're thinking of trying to get out of this, don't.  Mother comes home soon, and she'd be far less kind than I am.”

 Thorin's shoulders jerked in a visible shudder, and Bilbo made a mental note to ask what on earth Fíli meant by that. 

With one last meaningful look at Thorin, Fíli disappeared leaving behind a pointed silence.

~-~-~-~-~

Bilbo let himself become absorbed in studying the thin strains of mineral in the stone floor beneath his feet until he couldn't stand the weight of the tension any longer. When he raised his gaze, it was to find familiar icy blue eyes sweeping over him cataloging him much as he had Thorin. 

Bilbo forced himself to stand firm. What a sight he must make, covered in dust, and clad in stained and worn clothing from the long journey. With at start, Bilbo realized that he must appear very similar to one of the last times Thorin had seen him. Of course, at the point he had been holding Bilbo over the rampart, a foreign hatred in his eyes. That memory added an extra layer of steel to Bilbo’s backbone and he straightened up even more.  He had not come so far to cower. He'd done nothing wrong. 

Just when he thought they'd go into the night without speaking, Thorin stepped forward and nodded.  “Good afternoon, Burglar,” he finally said his voice less cold and far more sad than Bilbo had been expecting.

Despite the sadness he could hear, the fact that he had been returned to his former status as a burglar rankled him more than it should. The unexpected surge of anger caused him to bite out, more harshly than he intended, “I do realize it’s been a while, Thorin, so maybe you’ve forgotten, but my name is  _Bilbo._ ”  As soon as the words left his mouth, he winced. Drat his foolish pride and his cursed tongue. 

Thorin’s head drooped a bit and he almost seemed resigned as he silently weaved through the chairs to stand in front of the massive fireplace. Bilbo could not follow. He couldn’t do much of anything really, except stand there and gape. This was not the Thorin he remembered.   The dwarf before him stood defeated without even attempting to battle.

“What happened to you?” He breathed softly as he watched Thorin begin his own contemplation of the stone before him.

Twisting his head around to gaze at him, Thorin seemed to pause and gather his thoughts. “You,” he replied turning to face him.

For such a simple word, it had an infinite amount of possible meanings and Bilbo’s mind raced furiously to whittle those meanings down to something useful. “Are you blaming me?” He finally asked, his bare feet shifting restlessly against the cool stone.

Thorin let out a harsh bark of incredulous laughter and Bilbo flinched at the sudden sound. “Blame you? No, I have done many unworthy things in my life, but blaming you for something I have done is something I cannot and will not do… _again_.”

By the end of his speech, Thorin’s voice had trailed off to such a soft level that Bilbo almost missed the last word. With clenched teeth, Bilbo reminded himself yet again that he needed to breathe and remain calm. “Then what exactly are you going on about? Because I have absolutely no idea what’s happening here.”

“You should not have come back,” Thorin murmured with that bleak expression still in his eyes.

That stung Bilbo even more than being called a burglar again. Apparently the shock must have been apparent on his face for Thorin quickly amended his statement. “You were right to leave the mountain. I – we have wronged you in so many ways. I would not have blamed you for staying away permanently.”

“You mean when you banished me?” Bilbo knew he was being uncharacteristically blunt, but his poor head was spinning and if he didn’t get answers sometime soon, it was liable to fly right off.

At that, Thorin snorted. “That was the least of many wrong-doings. Had I known that you and your wife were expecting a child, I would never have allowed you to come on our quest. I would not have had you set upon by goblins and orcs, or forced you to face the dragon. I would have tried harder to keep you from getting under my skin."  Thorin looked away then took a deep breath and turned back to meet Bilbo's eyes.  "I apologize for the advances I made toward you and for nearly leaving your child father-less.”

The open sincerity on Thorin’s face caused Bilbo’s heart to stutter to a stop. However, as he latched onto what he was actually saying, a dull roar began to build in his ears. “I am going to murder Ori,” he ground out.

Thorin looked taken aback and a more than a little confused. “Why would you- ?”

“I’m not married.”

“You’re not?” Thorin eyes narrowed slightly and he tilted his head regarding Bilbo thoughtfully.

“In case you missed it, Fíli did actually tell you that Frodo is my nephew. When his parents died I took him in rather than let him be passed around in-between some of my less than capable relatives.”

A brief flash of something that looked like relief swept through Thorin’s eyes but it disappeared only to be replaced by an odd look of despair. Bilbo couldn’t understand it until Thorin spoke again, "That only relieves the last of my wrongs against you." 

“I’m not married. Don’t you understand? Frodo was quite happily living with his parents while we were on our quest. In fact, you had nothing at all to do with him suddenly being father-less. It was a damn river, not you.”

“The young hobbit is lucky to have you for a father,” Thorin replied quietly. The topic of his parenting skills had been a discussion of much interest in the Shire and thus no longer phased Bilbo, although he was pleased to hear that Thorin at least thought well enough of him to believe him capable of raising a child. That already set him far above his neighbors back in the Shire. What concerned him more was that Thorin was sinking into an all too familiar fugue that meant something was still bothering him.

“Oh no you don’t. What aren’t you telling me? Did somebody die while I was gone?”

This question at least brought some sense of life back into Thorin’s eyes. “No, we are all alive. The mountain is well on its way to being what it once was.”

“Then help me understand what the problem is. Because right now, all I’m getting is that you didn’t actually want me to come back.” Throughout their conversation, Bilbo had been shifting closer, slowly, as if wary of startling a wild animal. Now, he was standing within arms reach of Thorin, the closest he had been to him since the fateful moment on the ramparts. Bilbo watched as Thorin’s hand twitched at his side before slowly reaching up to rest against the side of Bilbo’s face. He resisted the urge to bury his nose into that warm, familiar palm, but couldn’t help let his eyes flutter closed for a second as something inside of him unclenched.

“I don’t deserve to have you back,” Thorin said regretfully, his eyes full of sorrow.

Bilbo’s eyes snapped back open at that and he stared at Thorin incredulously.

“What on earth do you mean by that?” Thorin’s hand slipped from Bilbo’s face and he instantly missed the warmth. It was a hand that had been clasped in his many a night, and it was a hand he had thought he would never get to hold again.

“I have wronged you on so many levels. Being with you is a happiness I do not deserve.”

Ah, yes. There was the self-sacrificing idiot he had somehow grown to love. Rolling his eyes at Thorin’s need for drama, Bilbo couldn’t decide if he wanted to smack his own forehead in frustration or smack Thorin’s in hope of getting something through his thick skull. “You know, I’m not exactly blameless, here. Right?” With a raised eyebrow, Bilbo crossed his arms. “While you may have been ignoring me for the last two years, I, too, am capable of picking up a quill and writing a letter.”

“You were justified in your anger,” Thorin replied dismissively.

“But that doesn’t make it okay. Both of us did monumentally stupid things, but that doesn’t mean we don’t deserve each other,” Bilbo snapped. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Bilbo slid sideways into the one of the leather chairs and landed with a whump that fit his frustration levels perfectly. Something about the journey from the Shire to Erebor seemed to inspire madness because every time he arrived at the mountain he found himself in the most ridiculous situations. He had promised himself along time ago that he should the moment come he would defend his own actions, and his alone, but now found for some absurd reason he found that he had abandoned himself in his efforts to defend Thorin.  

Thorin sat in the chair across from Bilbo albeit more sedately, his jaw set. “If it weren’t for my actions on the ramparts, my own consuming greed, none of this would have happened,” Thorin growled, sitting upright on the edge of the chair, his back ramrod straight.

“You had dragon sickness.”

“I fell to the same madness that took my father and my grandfather. I deserve no more than they.”

“Thorin, they _died_.” At Thorin’s stoic face, Bilbo rolled his eyes. “Stop trying to shoulder the burden of all Middle Earth and listen to me for a moment. You cannot accept the blame for all of this.”

“My actions- "

“-Certainly played a part in it, yes,” Bilbo interrupted smoothly. “But so did mine. And Ori’s. And to a lesser degree, the rest of the company. You hold yourself too accountable for the actions of others, Thorin.” Bilbo had traveled so far for so long, and he was tired.  He was ready to see his battles at Erebor ended.

“You stole my heart: are you to steal what little I have of my pride as well? Truly, I was blessed to fall in love with a thief!” Lurching to his feet, Thorin glared Bilbo who followed swiftly to stand toe to toe with him before he could stalk away.  

It seemed the battle was not to be won so easily, but Bilbo wasn't prepared to give up. “Love means sharing burdens, Thorin. Not bearing them alone. It means figuring out things together. It means allowing another to help. Tell me, how much help have you let Fíli and Kíli give you?”

Thorin’s face paled slightly before a thunderous look rolled across his face. “Do not presume to tell me about my kin,” he hissed. “I know all too well how my actions have harmed them. If anything, I have sought to correct that.”

“At what harm to yourself?”

“I will do whatever takes,” Thorin snarled, sliding into a protective stance. “I may not have been able to preserve their innocence but I will do what I must to preserve their lives.”

Bilbo gritted his teeth. “Let me guess, you are protecting me as well?” He bit out, his hands clenched at his side.

“Of course.”

Bristling at the condescending tone he could hear flirting around the edge of Thorin’s voice, Bilbo straightened up as much as he was able. He briefly considered finding a stool stand on so he could be nose-to-nose with his stubborn dwarrow instead of nose to chest, as usual, but he didn't want to take the time for that.  “You seem to have forgotten. I’ve gone up against orcs, spiders, trolls, and bloody dragons for you, Thorin. Where do you get off turning me into a damsel in distress? What on earth makes you think that you can decide anything for me? I. Have. Earned. That. Right.”

The fury emanating off of him seem to make Thorin pause, or it could have been the emphatic pokes Bilbo was thrusting into his chest with each and every word. Either way, they stood locked in place, staring at each other with fury in their eyes. A small part of Bilbo’s mind was glad that Kíli had spirited his nephew away. This meeting was turning out just as he had expected it would.

Bilbo sighed and broke off their staring contest.  He glanced at the ground seeming not to notice that his hand had stopped poking and now rested over Thorin's heart.  As the silence extended past the comfortable stage he glanced up and noticed Thorin’s eyes seemed to be transfixed on where Bilbo’s fingers met the cool, blue tones of his robes.

“Did you ever notice,” Bilbo began mildly, leaving his fingers where they were planted, “that we always end up arguing, you and I?” He felt his fingers move as Thorin let out a huff, of agreement or laughter, Bilbo wasn’t sure, but he continued on anyways. “You can’t always protect me. But you can allow me to make my own decisions.”

“As if I could stop you.”

Bilbo smirked at that. Feeling a bit more daring now that Thorin seemed less resigned and more tired, he reached up and cupped Thorin’s chin, drawing his gaze back to Bilbo’s eyes. “You can’t. So stop trying to presume what you have and have not done to wrong me. Let me be the judge of that. And in turn, I will let you decide just how much I have wronged you in my own absence.”

“But you haven’t – “ the rest was muffled as Bilbo slapped his hand across Thorin’s mouth, sensing where Thorin was about to head with that particular conversation. Thorin abruptly stilled at Bilbo’s touch but his eyes glinted in annoyance.

“Yes, I have wronged you.” Bilbo warned, letting his hand slip back down. “I have my own part to play in this. The beautiful thing about love is that not only does it mean counting on someone to have your back, but it also means you _forgive_ them when they’ve wronged you. We both have much to forgive, but we will get through it _together._ ”

Thorin still didn’t speak but shook his head minutely as Bilbo stressed his own wrongdoing. Grimacing, Bilbo scrubbed his fingers through his curls in agitation. “I swear, Thorin. You take being stubborn to indescribable heights. It’s infuriating,”

“And you are no less quarrelsome and irritatingly pragmatic,” Thorin countered. “To think that I would lay any blame at your feet.” He snorted at that though Bilbo could see his posture had loosened up.

Shaking his head, Bilbo stared up at Thorin in with amusement, “It’s a wonder we managed to court at all.”

“We never really started courting,” Thorin answered a hint of something in his voice.

The words by themselves caused Bilbo’s heart to lurch, but that hint of something was almost wistful and Bilbo latched onto that with everything he had. “Would it have made this any easier?”

Thorin tilted his head and gave that question serious thought. “I honestly doubt it. The courting rituals of the dwarrows are fairly complex. At any point, you would have been able to call off the entire courtship and I would have been made a laughingstock and a pariah amongst our people for failing to obtain the love of my One.”

“Then it would have been infinitely easier,” Bilbo shot back with narrowed eyes.

“In what way?”

“You would have to have trusted me when I say there’s nothing on this earth you could do to make me stop loving you, you moron.” Bilbo finished before turning to drop back into his chair. Suddenly, he was very tired.

“If I slip back into madness-“

“Then I would find Dwalin, get him to hit you on the head several times, drag you kicking and screaming back to the Shire and sit on you until you got it out of your system.” Bilbo sprawled back in his chair and folded his arms against his chest in defiance.

“You were gone for so long,” Thorin whispered softly as he also sat down. “With all that has happened, how can you still love me?”

"You were absent from my side just as long.  Do you no longer love me?"  At Thorin's lowered eyebrows and dark scowl, Bilbo shrugged his shoulders and continued. “I love you because you are noble. You are honorable. When you love something, you love fiercely and forever. How could I not return a love such as that?”

“But you left.”

“I had just delivered the Arkenstone to your sworn enemies. Those outside the company saw it as the most grievous treason imaginable. I assumed that everyone within would feel the same. When no one sought after me, I returned to Dale with the men to rest and heal. They were far more welcoming than the dwarrows I had encountered after the battle.”

“You wanted to go home,” Thorin added softly at the end, his face finally relaxing into something Bilbo was a bit more familiar with. “Back to your books, and your armchair, if I recall correctly.”

“I thought I did. But nothing had changed while I was gone except for me. Too many big ideas for Hobbiton, I’m afraid.” Bilbo laughed self-deprecatingly. “But when Primula and Drogo died, poor Frodo was passed around like a unwanted birthday present, so I took the lad and have tried to raise him as best I could.” A sour look crossed Bilbo’s face as he recalled the many objections that the townspeople had had to the crazy, wandering bachelor of the Shire corrupting a poor young innocent like Frodo. Some of them, Lobelia especially, had been quite vocal about his attempts at parenting. Thorin, to his credit, seemed interested in the faces Bilbo was making, but luckily refrained from commenting on them.

“What made you return?” Thorin pressed, staring at him intently.

At least they weren’t shouting at each other anymore, Bilbo thought. This, this he could handle. “Frodo,” he answered easily, smirking slightly at Thorin’s crestfallen face. “I’m afraid the lad’s head is full of stories of the mountain and he wanted to see it for himself. That you featured prominently in the stories had nothing at all to do with it,” he snarked, letting a small grin flit across his face.

“You told him stories about me-us?”

“Yes. About you-them,” he replied, watching Thorin’s lip quirk up ever so slightly. “He was upset one night and requested a bedtime story. So I told him one. And then another one. And another one. He really likes the ones about Fíli and Kíli,” Bilbo warned, “and I would be lying if I say he hasn’t proven he’s just as capable of mischief as your nephews.”

Thorin’s face blanched at the thought and Bilbo was gratified to see that Thorin understood the implications of the unholy trio.

“So you came back because of Frodo,” Thorin finally uttered, glancing at Bilbo through the inky black locks that Bilbo had sorely missed.

“I came back,” Bilbo sat up and stared at Thorin intently, “because it took a small child to point out how senseless I was for staying away and not fighting for someone I love.”

Tilting his head, Thorin regarded Bilbo as if seeing him in a new light.

“I thought I was tired of fighting, Thorin. But I was wrong. It took me a while to realize it, but I was fighting for the wrong thing.” Bilbo said earnestly. “I’m going to fight tooth and nail to keep you, Thorin Oakenshield. So you’d better get damn used to having me around. The real question becomes, are you ready to fight to keep me?”

Biting his lip, he watched the expressions play out across Thorin’s face, noting the shadows had grown as they talked. It surely must be near suppertime. When Thorin finally spoke, Bilbo jumped out of his skin.

“Would you allow me to court you properly this time?” Thorin asked, his voice lightened with a trace of amusement. “If I recall correctly, the last time I even mentioned courting, you very firmly put your foot down.”

“Are you going to make me face another dragon?”

Thorin’s face contorted at the mention of that but it eventually smoothed out. “Does my sister count?”

A laugh bubbled out from between Bilbo’s lips and Thorin chuckled softly. “I think I can handle your sister. After all, I am luck-wearer.” Bilbo answered between snickers.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

Thorin’s face lit up and he climbed to his feet, before reaching across and pulling Bilbo up to his feet as well. With a soft tug, Bilbo let himself be pulled into Thorin’s arms and if he nestled into it, well, there was no one around to hear his soft sigh of happiness.

Bilbo knew there was no miracle cure. Two years of pain, of hurts and wrongdoing could not be wiped away in one afternoon. But for the first time, he dared to hope that they might be able to overcome this and end up loving each other more fiercely than before. Because this was not going to be the love of softly fallen rains and sonnets. A dwarrow’s love was as fierce as his heart and Bilbo wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N
> 
> Alright my peeps! This is the last chapter of Heartbeat of the Mountain. Time for a happy dance! I actually finished a story that people liked! Thank you all for being with me through this journey and I promise, promise, promise there are other works in store for this tale. Heartbeat is far from done. This one just came to a natural conclusion so the rest of my ideas will have be put to paper (or computer) in a variety of different stories. 
> 
> Thank you to all my readers and I hope you enjoy this last chapter! Please keep commenting and giving kudos. If any of you have something you would like to see me post about in this little universe of mine, let me know in the comments! You never know when something you ask might spark a plot bunny! 
> 
> (As always, I own nothing but the rings on my fingers and the bells on my toes - Oh wait, I don't have those either. Oh well.)

His One had come home.

Thorin couldn’t believe his good fortune. That Bilbo had returned to him was a miracle in and of itself, but that Bilbo returned and still loved him was beyond his wildest dreams.

His One had forgiven him and that was all Thorin needed. With hesitant touches, they began to explore each other, reacquainting themselves as if the passage of time had managed to change more than their temperaments. Bilbo, Thorin was delighted to find out, had changed very little. He had grown more plump and had a few more creases to his face than before, but that was largely it. Placing a fluttering of kisses across Bilbo’s eyelids, he couldn’t help but notice that Bilbo still fit into the curve of his body perfectly, just as before.

When Bilbo pulled back slightly to crack his neck, Thorin remembered with chagrin that he was a fair bit taller than Bilbo and decided to solve the problem by settling both of them into one of the chairs, Bilbo nestled on his lap quite comfortably.  There they stayed, speaking softly together as the shadows grew even darker around them.

At long last, Thorin drew back from a kiss he’d placed on Bilbo’s lips, and noticed that Bilbo appeared distracted. “Is there something wrong?” he asked.

Bilbo seemed to shake himself awake and gave him a reassuring smile that Thorin happily matched. The dwarrows in the mountain were in for a surprise for they had rarely seen their monarch with a smile on his face. Thorin very much doubted if they would see him without now. Not even that clothead in Lake Town could ruin the smile on his face.

“Don’t mind me. It’s just been a while since I’ve seen Frodo.” A sheepish grin crossed Bilbo’s face as he continued. “He’s a long way from home and I’m a bit worried.”

“He is with my sister-sons. They will make sure he is well,” Thorin scoffed. His heirs were entirely capable of handling one small baby hobbit! But as he looked down at his own hobbit, recalling the many times Bilbo had done the exact opposite of what was expected of him, Thorin suddenly had doubts. Doubts that Bilbo surely must see because they appeared to be mirrored in his own eyes less than a fraction later.

“It’s not him I worry about,” Bilbo confirmed stepping back from where he’d been snuggled against Thorin’s chest. 

Thorin’s fingers flexed as if to pull him back but he cautioned himself. The last time he’d grabbed Bilbo it hadn’t ended well. Perhaps it was best to let his One lead for now. He settled for warily wrapping his arm around Bilbo’s waist and was pleased when Bilbo absently settled back into his side.

“Would you feel better if we went in search of them?” Thorin watched Bilbo carefully, feeling a sharp pain of regret that Frodo had managed to spend more time with Bilbo than even he had. So much wasted time.

At Bilbo’s enthusiastic nod, Thorin rose from the chair, setting Bilbo on his feet with care. If his One wanted his child, then Thorin would find him for Bilbo even if they had to search the whole mountain. Fíli and Kíli had said they would be in the kitchen and despite all appearances, Thorin had actually been listening as Fíli spoke; however, he was also very aware of his nephews’ tendency to wander.  Still, they were best off starting in the kitchen.

As they meandered through the long corridor that most of the company had claimed as their own, Thorin cast his mind out in search of a safe, non-threatening topic.

Belatedly, he realized that he’d never actually inquired about Bilbo or his trip. “How was your journey here?” he asked, glancing down at the curls he’d missed for so long. “Did the weather cooperate or did it rain incessantly like it did on our own journey?”

Bilbo’s shoulders began to shake and for a moment, Thorin felt his heart beat faster.  Had he said the wrong thing again? However, he came to realize it was his One _laughing_ at him.

“What did I say?” he asked indignantly.

“Two years gone and all you can think of is to ask me about the weather!” Bilbo chortled.

Thorin felt the slender arm around his waist tighten in a reassuring squeeze.

 “The journey was fine, Thorin. Long, tiring, but fine. It’s four months of my life I’ll never get back, but since they brought me here, I can’t complain.”

“You made far better time than we did,” Thorin mused as he led them down a brilliant green staircase into a long vast hall teeming with dwarrows going every which way. Passageways such as these acted as thoroughfares and connected all the large caverns that made up the dwarrows living spaces but were large enough they also served as meeting places for friends and family. As such, there were small stone benches and easily movable wooden chairs that dotted the fringes of the halls. He navigated through this particular passage easily enough keeping to the edge where there were far less people.

 “It helps that our guides knew which way was North,” Bilbo countered his voice raised slightly to be heard over the din.

Thorin gave him a mock scowl but inwardly he was pleased as Bilbo giggled at the look. He made a vow then and there to make Bilbo laugh as much as possible.  “Only the elves could possibly find their way through those accursed forests,” he grumbled and froze when Bilbo smiled a smile that was far too innocent. “You didn’t?!”

“Didn’t what?”

Giving Bilbo a knowing look, Thorin continued. “So you did you go through Mirkwood again?” he confirmed and he felt Bilbo pause at his side before matching pace with him again once more.

“Yes,” was the hesitant reply.

Thorin nodded thoughtfully, pulling Bilbo to the side to avoid being trampled by a herd of miners who, based on their speech, would stop at nothing to get to their next meal.

In fact, many of the dwarrows around them were heading in search of their evening repast. There were many dining halls scattered throughout the mountain, supplied by a string of kitchens. It was the Royal Kitchen, whose sole task was to feed the nobles and ruling family, which they were in search of and Thorin spotted the exiting tunnel they would need to take up ahead of them on the other side of one of the seating areas.

“How did you find King Thranduil?” he finally remembered to ask, trying to keep Bilbo from being jostled. The dwarrows around them were too thick skinned and wore heavy boots, unlike his hobbit, whose feet were likely to be trampled.

“Much the same,” Bilbo replied slightly confused. “Albeit far more hospitable.”

Thorin let that comment sink down into the convoluted tangle that was dealings with the elves. Bilbo’s response necessitated further study as it was just another puzzle piece to the unusual dealings he’d had with the Mirkwood King since the reclamation of Erebor but right now, he had more important things to do.

As Thorin opened his mouth to ask why he’d taken up with the elves instead of joining one of the many caravans that still streamed from Blue Mountains, his ears twitched as he caught a familiar name.

“-ince Kíli, bounding away like he always does.” An elderly dwarrow nearby grimaced as he spoke rubbing his shin.

“Aye, at least Prince Fíli showed some restraint, though I’m not sure what to make of that wee lad with them.”

“I’ve never seen one for fussin’ so. Or one so _fast_. Bounced right off of me, he did. Barely a by-your-leave before he was tearing off again, that young prince right on his heels.”

A third dwarrow he recognized as Falin, a distant cousin of Balin, righted an overturned chair nearby and huffed in agreement as he plopped down. “That little one’s a right hellion.”

Thorin felt Bilbo shift at his side and without thinking about it both lengthened their stride.

“That doesn’t sound like Frodo,” he heard Bilbo muttering to himself. “But there’s no one else it could be.”

“Maybe they were just playing a game?” Thorin offered up doubtfully as he suddenly whirled and pulled Bilbo into the corridor he had spotted a few minutes ago. There were many ways to get to the kitchens, but this was one of the faster ones.

 As they hurried down the corridor, Thorin’s boots clomped loudly, completely eclipsing the pitter-patter of Bilbo’s bare feet on the cool stone.  They were moving so quickly Thorin almost missed the familiar face that lurked in the shadows of one of the corridors.  He barely had time to bare his teeth in that direction before they were past, but he was gratified to hear a muffled “eep” and the sound of someone scurrying away. There would be time enough later to deal with that one.

At Bilbo’s curious glance, he shook his head. “Nothing to worry yourself about. Just someone I need to have a discussion with.”

He ignored the frown on Bilbo’s face and instead continued their quick-march to the kitchen.

“Are you sure Frodo is going to like me?” he asked with a sudden abruptness. Inwardly, he winced at how awkward his question sounded. While not a brilliant conversationalist, he was usually a far more eloquent speaker than this. Being around Bilbo again was oddly unnerving. Sometimes he felt like he could achieve that comfort and ease they’d once had during the long reaches of the night. But more often than not, it seemed as if he was once again a tongue-tied youngster tripping over his own words.

“You have nothing to worry about, Thorin.” Bilbo said and gave him a reassuring squeeze on the arm. They’d forsaken wandering as lovers in the haste to find Frodo, but Thorin couldn’t suppress the thrill that ran up his spine at the touch of his One. “Frodo has been fascinated by you from the very first story. You will find meeting his expectations to be easy enough.”

As they traveled toward the kitchens, Bilbo continued to extoll the virtues of his own nephew until they finally reached the large wooden doors that marked the entrance to the cavernous kitchens. “He really is quite sweet…” Bilbo finished.

The door swung open easily as Thorin leaned his weight against it revealing utter pandemonium on the other side.

Bilbo froze with his mouth open and Thorin had to prod him sharply in the ribs to get him to move.

There in the middle of the blazing fires of the oven, overturned furniture, scurrying, shouting dwarrows, and tumbled looking heirs lay Frodo with his tiny mouth open wide in a snore.

Frodo was nestled down in a pile of lumpy burlap bags in a way that made Thorin, who claimed he could sleep anywhere, wince. If he was not mistaken, the lad was sleeping on a pile of dried corn.

After taking stock of the situation, Bilbo darted from Thorin’s side to inspect his nephew who appeared to be covered in frosting. Thorin cast his eyes around searching for his wayward sister-sons. It was Kíli he spied first, collapsed on the floor next to the pile, stabbing a piece of rhubarb pie with a fork.

“What on earth happened?” Thorin asked, squatting down next to Kíli. Kíli beamed at Thorin and shoved a forkful of pie in his direction.

“This stuff is fantastic. You should try some.” Thorin shot him a warning glance but Kíli was unperturbed. “Did you two make up?”

“What. Happened?” The kitchens were chaotic at best as it took many hands to make sure the dwarrows of the mountains were all fed, but the insanity that was his royal kitchens had reached a previous unheard of frenetic pace. As he took in the sights of the overturned chairs, spilled sacks of grain, and an angry cook holding a rag wound tightly around his bleeding hand, he raised an eyebrow at his nephew.

“You should have seen it, Uncle!”

At the call, Thorin turned and watched as his other nephew popped up from behind the pile of sacks.

Like Frodo, Fíli was covered in white frosting which he was licking off his fingers with relish. “Someday, this little hobbit is going to be an absolute terror on the battlefield.”

Now it was Bilbo’s turn to shoot them a gimlet look. “What did you do?”

Thorin was slightly offended when his nephews cringed at Bilbo’s look and not his.  But at least it finally got him an answer. 

“It wasn’t us,” Kíli said indignantly waving his fork for emphasis as Thorin shifted back to escape the pronged menace that was his nephew. “Frodo went insane.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow but Kíli was still looking at Bilbo who was also displaying signs of disbelief. “Frodo is many things, but he is not a hellion, insane, or a _warrior_ ,” Bilbo grimaced at the last word. “So I ask again, what did _you_ do.”

Literally and figuratively, Fíli rose in defense of brother, standing up to his full height next to the wrecked table. “We didn’t do anything.  Kíli’s right.” His defense wavered at the sight of both his Uncle and Bilbo staring at him with an incredulous look on their faces but he rallied swiftly. With an unrepentant air, he continued. “We just tried to catch him.”

“And why did my nephew need catching?” Bilbo’s voice was low and dangerous but only Thorin seemed to notice the glint in Bilbo’s eyes.

“He was trying to get back to you and Uncle,” Kíli responded. “He’s quick, but we’re quicker,” he said proudly, puffing out his chest. “It took us a while but we finally got him corralled. We knew you two needed to work things out on your own and that you’d be down eventually.” He glanced at Frodo and tilted his head. “Guess he finally got tired of waiting.”

As Kíli snickered at his own joke, Thorin watched as Bilbo inspected his nephew again for any damage.  The lad was unharmed as far as he could tell. Frodo’s dark curls lay damp against his forehead from the heat of the ovens and he clutched an apple firmly to his chest. Thorin still wasn’t sure where the frosting had come from but the murderous looks in the eyes of his cooks convinced him that he didn’t really want to know.

A hand suddenly gripped his shirt and tugged on it. Bilbo had reached back blindly but once his fingers met cloth, he pulled until Thorin was forced to either fall over or shuffle forward to kneel next to Bilbo. He ignored the snicker coming from behind him but he did catch Fíli looking down at them with an indulgent grin.

“Thorin, this is Frodo. My nephew. I thought the two people I love most should finally officially meet.”

The indignant cries of Fíli and Kíli were drowned out by the rapid pounding of Thorin’s own heart. Staring down at Frodo, he cautiously ran his fingers through the black curls, marveling at how soft they felt, but wary of waking the sleeping child. Bilbo’s curls were springy but these were as light as the downy feathers on the chests of his ravens. Leaning into him, Bilbo rested his own hand on top of Thorin’s, and without thinking, Thorin joined their fingers together.

As their fingers twined together over the most innocent looking child Thorin had ever seen, his heartbeat, which had alternated between racing like a rabbit’s and impersonating the cold stone that surrounded them, finally evened out. Taking a deep breath, he marveled again at the slow, steady thump. That one act, ten fingers linked together again, had done more for him than all the medicinal leaves the healers had proscribed, the endless gold of the treasury, or the unrelenting loyalty that twelve dwarrows offered.

Laying a hand on Bilbo’s back, under the guise of balancing them both, Thorin felt the heartbeat of his One, pulsing steadily against his fingers. Maybe it was his imagination that their heartbeats were in sync and that they were powerful and steady enough to resonate with the stone beneath their feet, but the mountain suddenly felt different to him. It felt alive. It was a strange sensation to have the mountain feel so alive, so full of love and light when all that had changed were the presence of two hobbits.

There were two new heartbeats within Erebor’s walls of stone, but they were far more precious than any Arkenstone. Unlike the cold, glittering jewel, these heartbeats were flesh and blood and a perfect match to his own.  These were the true hearts of the mountain. Thorin smiled. After all these years, the mountain was finally a home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, I know lots of you wanted to read about Thorin meeting Frodo for the first time and I apologize for the disappointment! Rest assured that I've already got a story in the works that will handle all the initial (or mostly initial) reactions to Bilbo and Frodo. There is going to be a brief hiatus of about three or four weeks before I start posting again while I work with my lovely beta to make sure you guys get the best story possible. I want to do this right! Thank you again and I hope you enjoyed the ride because I certainly had a hell of a fun time writing it!


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